


Find Any Way to Your Wild Heart

by peroxideshots



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Always Female Scott McCall, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, F/F, Femslash, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gender or Sex Swap, High School Musical References, House Party, Humor, Jock!Scott/Hipster!Stiles, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, MAKEOVER SCENE, Misunderstandings, Romantic Comedy, Rule 63, hints of background lydia/jackson, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1998219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peroxideshots/pseuds/peroxideshots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott is the Beacon Hills' resident lacrosse star. She's the only girl on the team, has pretty much got a full-ride to college already, and don't even get Stiles started on her amazing thighs. Scotty's basically got it all.</p><p>Stiles is the sole and founding member of the Beacon Hills Literary Magazine (not to be referred to as 'the newspaper club'), Scotty's best friend and, more recently - the sole and founding member 'Scott McCall Lesbian Crush support group.' </p><p>It's a work in progress, but hey - Stiles has always been the optimist.</p><p> </p><p>[A work for the scilesreversebang challenge, inspired by <a href="http://jaegertea.tumblr.com/post/92483544769/scott-is-the-beacon-hills-resident-lacrosse-star">Emery's wonderful art!</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Any Way to Your Wild Heart

“Do you _have_ to wear your repulsive sweaty lacrosse jersey when you roll all over my bed?” Stiles asks Scott indignantly. Her nose crinkles up and she shakes her head a little in disgust at the faint smear of mud Scott’s sweatpants are leaving on her duvet. “Actually, you know what, let me just rephrase – do you have to roll all over my bed _at all_?”

When Scott snorts and buries her face into Stiles’ pillow, Stiles can hear the smile in her muffled voice even if she can’t see it. “’M tired,” Scott whines, and Stiles watches her back rise and fall for a few moments before the girl pulls herself up into sitting position with a sigh as though it physically pains her.

“Tragic,” Stiles retorts, deadpan, apathetic to Scott’s apparent discomfort. She swivels round to the desk in her chair with a flourish and goes back to the English homework she had been procrastinating on before she was _rudely_ interrupted. “I have no sympathy. Anyone who runs around in the freezing cold for fun deserves everything they’ve got coming.” Stiles hides her smile from Scott with a hand propped up on her cheek when she hears Scott make an offended-puppy sound.

“You should try out for the team again,” Scott says after a moment. She’s laid back down again, almost as if it was actually, you know, _her bedroom_. Stiles just rolls her eyes – she’s so used to this.

“Please,” she scoffs. They’ve had this conversation thousands of times in the past; Stiles had enjoyed her short-lived rise to fame as lacrosse star of Beacon Hills high in her first year, but she knew when to call it quits. She also may or may not have been asked to give it up by Coach due to her apparent disinterest, but hey. She quit, and that’s what matters.

Scott huffs and puts her hands behind her head. Stiles can practically hear the pout in her voice when she talks. “You loved lacrosse. I can’t believe you just gave it up to join the _newspaper club_.”

 _That_ wasn’t true. Stiles hadn’t loved lacrosse. She’d loved watching Scotty’s thighs flex under her shorts and loved the excuse to wrap her up into a tight hug every time she scored, but the game? Stiles didn’t think it was anything special. Not when she played it, anyway. Scott made it look like _magic_.

Stiles finishes typing her sentence with a loud collision of fingers against keyboard before spinning back around in her chair to glare at Scott. “It’s the _Literary Magazine_ , not the newspaper club, you uneducated swine. No wonder you’re stuck running laps in the rain while I single-handedly rule the school with my dazzling prose and journalistic talents.” She pauses, going back to her typing with a disapproving shake of her head as Scott snorts behind her. “And just so you know, Finstock is making me do an article about your game coming up. You might want to warn the rest of your guys. I mean, I said to him that my readers would be _much_ more interested in an article on, I don’t know… the swim team, or something, but – hey!” Stiles’ head jerks forward and she splutters protests between laughs as Scott starts pelting her with skittles with ridiculously accurate aim.

Scott hides her smile and holds up her hand with narrowed eyes, a yellow skittle between her fingers glinting threateningly. The girl even has the nerve to stay lying down as she opens fire; god, what a show off. “Truce,” Scott says slowly – “I’ll back off from your _literary magazine_ if you admit I’m the star of the lacrosse team.”

“Done,” Stiles says with her mouth full as she picks out the last of the skittles from her hair. “You’re the star of the lacrosse team,” she imitates in a nasally voice, before smiling widely to show Scott her rainbow-tinted tongue along with some chewed-up skittles gunk. She chuckles at Scott’s grimace and gets up from her desk chair to settle down next to Scott on the bed, mirroring her position. “You really do smell disgusting,” she notices as she pushes Scott over to what’s long since been _her side_ of the bed.

“Sorry,” Scott says unapologetically. Up close, Stiles can see that Scott still has pieces of grass and mud in her hair, which always gets sort of frizzy after lacrosse. Stiles purses her lips fondly and rolls her eyes as she pulls it out, and then lets her fingers comb through the curls until they’re somewhat less crazy. “You know, there’re these things called hair grips,” she suggests to Scott after a second. The girl’s face is flushed when their eyes meet, dark lashes fanning out over her cheeks. For a moment Stiles gets the urge to kiss Scott, but she quickly cuts the thought off. It only feels like a knife twisting in her chest for a moment, before the feeling disappears, and Stiles has to look away as it’s replaced with guilt.

“Haha,” Scott says in a sarcastic voice. She bats Stiles’ hand away lightly and ruffles up her hair again, ruining any sort of order Stiles had given the brown mess. “Besides, you can hardly talk,” she retorts, and Stiles makes a mock-indignant gasp.

“This?” Stiles says, gesturing to her admittedly occasionally sight-obstructing fringe – “is _artistic_. It’s called fashion, Scotty. Look it up.”

Scott just hums though a smile in response. After a moment she reaches up to comb her fingers through Stiles’ artistically tousled hair. “If you’re going for the whole hipster thing, you should just dye your hair at the ends,” she says thoughtfully. Her voice is getting deeper and her eyelids are low over her eyes, her smile dopey and adorable.

“Never,” Stiles contradicts simply with narrowed eyes. “I refuse to become one of those girls on We Heart It.”

It’s only half five, but whenever Scott comes over to Stiles’ house after lacrosse practice, she’s always tired. It definitely isn’t the first time Scott’s fallen asleep on her bed, but Stiles never gets tired of it. The girl’s eyes close gently and Stiles watches her breathing steady out until she realises that, hey, she’s staring at Scott’s boobs and she should probably, like… not be doing that.

Stiles squeezes her eyes shut and rubs at them, not caring that she’s probably smearing the thin layer of hastily-applied mascara onto her cheeks. She sits up cross-legged on the bed and turns away from Scott as though that will stop her heart pounding in her chest.

And okay, Stiles _knows_ that she needs to talk to Scott about it. _It_ being the way Stiles’ heart decides to have a mini heart-attack every time Scott looks at her sleepily with those huge brown puppy-eyes; whenever she smiles _that way_ when she’s tired, all softly-curved lips, crooked and inviting. Or, you know, pretty much whenever she’s in the same room as Scotty.

It’s lame to say, or to even _think_ , but Stiles even finds the annoying things Scott does endearing – she’ll find a pair of gross gym socks under her bed and catch herself smiling fondly as she puts them in the washing machine. If anyone else tried to copy her homework five minutes before class Stiles would blow a fuse, but with Scott these things suddenly become okay. More than okay, honestly, especially on those days when they’re running late and Scotty’s tongue pokes out with concentration, because she’s just so god damn adorable. People think Stiles is just a mega-dork for her health, but the truth is that she just wants to see Scotty _smile_. Seriously; Stiles often wonders why more people don’t thank Scott on a daily basis for her smiles, because those things are fucking radiant.

But Stiles can’t help being angry every time she realises that she’s just another stupid teen cliché, another nineties movie plotline to have fallen for her best friend - only, you know. More gay. It makes her even angrier when she thinks about how all of those ridiculous puberty books her dad bought her when she was eleven had promised it was a ‘phase.’ She’s been waiting for the day she wakes up and thinks, ‘yo, maybe I’m not actually crazy in love with my BFF.’

Only that never happened, and Stiles is sixteen now, so she’s seriously doubting the likelihood of that just fixing everything for her. As pathetic as it is to be in love with your best friend at fifteen, there’s something profoundly _more_ pathetic at being sixteen and in love with your best friend.

Behind her, Scott is breathing deeply - little huffy sounds which mean her mouth has opened slightly. Stiles doesn’t let herself turn to look. Scott’s teeth are probably resting gently against her bottom lip and her fingers are probably twitching a little, just like they always do as she’s drifting off. Stiles still doesn’t turn to look; instead, she presses her fist to her forehead as though that could push out the thoughts of Scotty’s v-neck jersey and the soft slope of her neck dipping beneath it.

“Get it together, Stilinski,” she mutters before pulling herself up from the bed, careful not to shake it and wake up Scott. She settles back into her desk chair to finish her homework and puts Sigur Rós on shuffle quietly on her iPod docking station. So what if it’s the same playlist Scott uses to get to sleep every night? That’s got nothing to do with anything. So what if Stiles lets herself look over at Scott every so often? It’s just to make sure the slow music isn’t waking her up. It’s not like she’s letting her eyes skim over Scott’s sleeping form so she can imagine what it would be like to wake up beside her in the morning.

And thanks to the dumb lacrosse team, this happens to Stiles at least three times a week. Scott falls asleep, and Stiles does her homework. She’s supposed to be _good_ at writing, it’s supposed to be her _thing_ \- but with Scott’s sleeping form so close to her, Stiles struggles to keep her attention on her computer in front of her. She cracks her knuckles and forces herself to finish the essay painstakingly, stringing words together like she’s cutting out newspaper for a ransom note.

 

 

 

 

\---

The thing is, ever since Stiles has _wanted_ things in _that way_ , the only constant in her life has been Scott. She’s been the one permanent anchor Stiles has always come back to in the sea of confusion growing up. Middle school had been a shitty time for both of them, what with Scott’s dad and Stiles’ mom and all the other crap that comes along with going from a kid to, well; not a kid. Scott has been through it all right there with her, and pretty much eighty percent of her childhood memories involve Scotty somehow.

It’s weird - looking back on it all now, Stiles realises she must have _always_ loved Scott. But the difference between just loving and being _in_ love is desire, and now the desire is just unbearable. All of a sudden, it’s as though what their friendship’s been all these years just isn’t enough for Stiles anymore.

Stiles thinks she can probably pinpoint it all down to the start of high school. It was when Scott’s mom had decided to take on more shifts at the hospital to help pay the bills since Scotty was old enough to look after herself in the evenings. It was when Scott had started sports. Clubs after school had filled the quiet afternoons in a house that was _way_ too big for the two of them, let alone Scott all by herself.

It had been the night before their first day at Beacon Hills when Scott had told Stiles her plan.

“I’m going to join all the sports teams I can. Literally, all of them.” Scott had been wearing plaid pyjama pants and a mismatched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt as she brushed through her crazy brown curls at the mirror in her bedroom. Stiles remembers snorting with laughter and disbelief, all ‘but we hate sports,’ and ‘dude, you’re too lazy to run,’ until Scott had told her the reasoning. The two of them had sat on Scott’s bed with the duvet over their crossed legs, all hushed voices and damp eyes in the dark room.

Scott had pushed her hair behind her ears and left her hands there, curled up into loose fists resting either side of her neck. “Do you think it’s a dumb idea? I mean… I don’t know. It’s not just that I don’t want mom to worry about me being home alone while she’s at work. I want something. I’m so _average_.” Scotty had rolled her eyes and smiled to shrug off the theatricality of it, but the words had still struck Stiles like a freight train, because Scott was _so far from average_. “Like, you’re so smart and you don’t even have to try. I’m okay at school; I know I’m not stupid or anything, but I suck at art and music and pretty much _everything_. Sport’s the only thing I haven’t properly tried yet.”

Scott had looked so small and timid at that moment, and Stiles had realised she more honest and serious with Stiles than she had been throughout their entire summer. Summer when you’re young, Stiles has since decided, is a great time to ignore all future problems. The days had dragged out for so long, stretching endlessly until she’d been bored and kicking a ball up the hot street, wishing for some sort of change. Maybe that’s what made Scott’s fears seems even more real as she’d shared them that night.

Stiles still feels the knot of anger in her chest at the thought of Scott thinking of herself as _average_. It was worse, somehow, than having to stick up for each other from other kids in the playground, which happened _all the time_. It was worse because it meant that the whole time Scott had thought the bullies had been right. That thought is what still hurts Stiles more than anything.

So. Because of that, Stiles had sat through _months_ of Scott joining clubs and quitting them, watching her jump from pitch to field to pool, looking for something, _anything_.  And as it turned out, Scotty was actually really good at sports. Like… all of them. Teachers overlooked the fact that her classwork wasn’t great because after a little while it became obvious that Scott would probably be getting a full ride to college doing whatever sport she felt like doing on the day.

Stiles didn’t mind tutoring her friend in classes she fell behind in because of practice, even if it was for a team she wouldn’t even on by the time the assignment was due. She didn’t mind that some days Scott would forget to tell her about this game or that training session, meaning Stiles would wait by the front gate after school for her, _sure_ she would be out any minute, that she was probably just getting told off by some teacher for a bad test score. Of course Stiles always forgave Scott. They were Scott-and-Stiles, joined at the hip, blood-sisters. How could she not forgive her?

But honestly, those months had been really lonely for Stiles. She had a lot of free time, so while Scotty threw herself into sports, Stiles threw herself into schoolwork. She’d watched her GPA climb gradually to the top of the class (well, joint-top – she was neck and neck with Lydia Martin, which Stiles personally thought was _unfair_ , because how did that girl have time to make herself look that pretty every day _and_ get full-marks on every test?)

And not only were those days especially lonely, but they were confusing. Really confusing.

Especially during the week Scotty had joined the swim team.

Because swimming, as Stiles soon realised, had meant bathing suits under Scott’s hoodies and wet hair dripping down her back from practice before class. It had left Scott with flushed cheeks and red-rimmed eyes and a sudden scent of chlorine that lingered long after her touch, and legs that suddenly seemed so much smoother and more muscular than before. Stiles spent _a lot_ of time watching from the bleachers.

And that had been it. The beginning of the end. Stiles was hooked. It was pretty much all downhill from there. Scott wasn’t even on the swim team for long – said she preferred tennis and the practices had clashed – but even now, Stiles still avoids swimming. The smell of chlorine sends her straight back to those afternoons watching Scotty swim laps in the pool; the way her friend’s legs sent spiralling ripples through the water and _tidal waves_ crashing inside Stiles’ ribcage.

After what had seemed like an eternity but had only actually been a few months, Scott had inevitably settled on one of the sports. It turned out to be lacrosse because Coach told her it was most likely to get her into college, and Scotty liked the uniform. Of course, she was brilliant – she had made first line within a week and practically single-handedly took the team to the semi-finals with a streak of winning goals. She’d even managed to talk Stiles into joining the team, which Stiles did, just so she could watch Scott be amazing from her side instead of from the bleachers for once.

But while Scott had managed to find herself in a crosse and jersey, Stiles had never really felt as though she had settled down. She couldn’t just un-see the way she’d seen Scott, no matter how hard she tried. Yahoo Answers had told her she would grow out of it, but to Stiles’ dismay, her sixteenth birthday came and went with no change.

And that was it. The tragically pitiful true story of how Stiles had fallen for her best friend. She still blames it on the stupid swimming team, but realistically, Stiles knows it was inevitable that she fall for Scott. Fate or some shit like that. The girl was just _amazing_.

 

 

 

 

\---

It’s been surprisingly easy for Stiles to carry on like nothing has changed for a little while. She just worked at controlling her staring and tried not to be too touchy-feely, because some days even hugging Scott would make her feel like crying and never letting go. Mostly, she’s pretty proud of herself for getting it under such a tight control.

But for whatever reason, the morning after feels like a _change_ of some sort. She isn’t sure what specifically is different, but when she wakes up the next morning, she opens her eyes and finds she’s staring at the side of the bed Scott had fallen asleep on the night before. For the first time, she feels more than that just that familiar longing – she feels sad. Not just frustrated (generally, but also, you know – sexually). There’s a new ache in her chest, like something inside her got left out in the rain overnight and is rusting away.

Stiles does what she does best - she tries to ignore it. She eats a bowl of her dad’s cardboard muesli and listens to lame chart-music on the radio before realising she’s running late, as usual. Her dad is already half-way out the door when Stiles kisses his cheek goodbye and runs back upstairs to get ready for school.

Stiles has worked out the whole ‘I-got-ready-for-school-in-six-minutes-flat-this-morning’ look down to _perfection_. Most days she can just pull on a pair of skinny jeans and a plaid over-shirt and because she’s _skinny_ and _white_ people will assume she’s being hipster, or whatever. Stiles thinks it’s all rubbish, but it beats getting picked on for her insane amounts of flannel - she’d gotten enough of that in middle school. She knows the main descriptor of her style to anyone else would have to be ‘hella fuckin’ gay,’ but the part of her that’s urging Scotty to realise how Stiles feels must override her self-consciousness. Whatever. She tries not to overthink her fashion choices too much.

Her hair, on the other hand, is a completely different story entirely. Scott’s right – her bangs are getting sort of crazy. It’s just so much _effort_ styling her stupid hair. She sticks her head out of the window and spritzes her whole face with hairspray in an attempt to make it look as though the weird bits that stick up are meant to be like that, before cack-handedly putting on a bit of mascara. She pulls on her cat Vans and hurries out of the front door with ten minutes to spare.

Stiles is panting and breathless by the time she pulls her bike up beside Scott’s, and spends a whole four seconds fumbling with the chain before giving up.

“Help,” she pleads weakly to Scott’s knees from where she’s slumped against some randomer’s bike. It’s _ridiculous_ how worn out the short ride from the house makes her. She holds the chain up to Scott and pouts, and Scott rolls her eyes before locking up Stiles’ old Chopper.

“Dude, seriously. Lacrosse. You need some cardio,” Scott says disapprovingly over the sound of the bell.

“You won’t be telling me that when I have a car and can give you rides, asshole,” Stiles retorts. She sees Scott holding her hand out to help out of the corner of her eye, but pretends not to notice as she stands up. The _last_ thing she feels like this morning is stupid Scott-induced electric shocks. She feels awkward and guilty just standing beside Scott this morning, like someone’s turned the voltage up on her usual background emotions.

“Coach Finstock caught up with me this morning,” Scott tells her as they make their way to homeroom. She’s got that stupid adorable confused frown on her face and it sends tingles up Stiles’ spine. “He said he wants us to train harder for a few weeks until the game. I have to go every day, dude. _And_ Saturdays.  I’ll be _dead_ by the time the dumb final comes round.”

“Every day and weekends? That’s crazy,” Stiles says, stunned. They reach the homeroom but loiter in the hallway for a second, killing time before their gruelling day of _learning_ starts. Stiles’ gaze fixes on Greenberg up the hall and she becomes momentarily distracted watching him with a sort of sick-fascination as he attempts to unlock his locker with his lacrosse stick. “Dude, that dude is a train-wreck,” she adds after a moment, shaking her head. “Sorry, what?”

“I have to stay until like 5.30 every night, as well. We’re doing _theory_ ,” Scott says sulkily, her nose curling on the final word like it’s emitting a bad smell. She kicks at the ground with the toe of her sneaker and sighs, before looking up at Stiles from under her eyelashes. “Which means I probably can’t come over after school anymore or hang out on Saturdays.”

Stiles feels as though a bucket of ice-water has been dumped over her. She wonders if she’s psychic or something, because from the moment she’d woken up she’d felt as though something was going to happen, and now she knows her instinct was right. Rationally, she knows she’s overreacting, because it’s only for two weeks until lacrosse season is over. And it’s not like Scott’s over every day anyway, all they ever do is hang out in Stiles’ room until one of them falls asleep, but _that’s not the point_. The point is that Stiles feels as though she’s right back in those few months at Beacon Hills, when Scotty would ditch her for sports and clubs and god-knows what. The point is that Stiles had just about reached her limit of Scott-separation anxiety that first time around – she isn’t sure how well she’ll handle it this time.

And not only that, but she’s embarrassed to realise it’s taken _this_ to realise that, yep, there’s no doubt about it now –evenings with Scott are the highlight of her week. The hard-hitting truth is literally like a fucking punch in the face. She really is completely in love with Scott.

“God, Stiles, I’m so sorry, but it’s only for a few weeks –“ Scott says frantically, and it’s only when the girl touches Stiles’ arm lightly that Stiles realises that she’s being spoken to. She pulls her arm back like she’s been burned, because everything is suddenly just too much, too fast.

“Yeah, no, I completely – you gotta do what you gotta do, I mean – and the literary club is getting super intense, so it’s not like I’ll –“ Stiles forces herself to stop babbling and to _smile_ _for god’s sake, you look like an idiot; get it together, Stilinski_ – “Really, Scott. Don’t worry. It’s fine.” Her voice even sounds normal that time. Stiles breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth, the way her therapist used to tell her to do, and praises herself for the performance.

Scott bites down on her lip and looks at Stiles in a way that makes her just want to tear her heart out of her chest and stuff it into Greenberg’s dead-locked locker to make it all stop hurting. “Are you sure?” Scott asks and Stiles has to laugh, because it’s not like anything would change if Stiles said she wasn’t okay with it.

“Of course, Scotty. Relax.” She swallows hard and tightens her ponytail before pushing open the door to their homeroom. “Besides, you need all the help you can get to win in that _complex and riveting sport_ ,” Stiles says sarcastically. She flashes Scott a smirk that’s only slightly bitchier than normal but Scott doesn’t seem to notice.

I’d like to thank the academy, Stiles thinks. She rolls her eyes as they get told off by their homeroom teacher for being late, like a normal. Scott keeps leaning over to ask if she’s okay and Stiles nods every time. She just feels numb and more than anything she just wants to open up and tell Scot everything, because really, how is any of this Scott’s fault? It’s _Stiles’_ fault for being stupidly obsessed with her best friend. But it’s like Stiles’ body is on autopilot; as though she’s become a puppet controlled by something other than herself and all she can do is smile and nod and avoid Scott’s eyes.

When she stands up to go to her lesson twenty minutes later there are red half-moons dug into her palms from where she’s been clenching her fists under the desk.

 

 

 

 

\---

Stiles spends the rest of the morning dreading lunchtime. Well, not so much the lunch part – that’s her favourite time of day. But she wracks her brain wondering how she’s going to pretend everything’s fine around Scott, nearly working herself into a panic in the middle of math class. But in the end it’s all for nothing.

She gets to the cafeteria late after a crazy-long discussion about homoerotic subtext in The Great Gatsby with her English teacher (more awkward than enlightening) and stops in the middle of the doorway when she sees that her and Scotty’s regular table is _empty_. Scott is _always_ at the table before Stiles, without exception. It’s all down to some bullshit about teachers not wanting her to be mobbed by crazed lacrosse fans in the hall or whatever.

Stiles stares fixated at the empty chair for a few more seconds before she pulls herself together enough to get into the lunch line. Maybe Scott’s just getting yelled at for missing that history deadline again. Stiles has almost managed to convince herself it’s true by the time she sits down to a delicious plate of ‘meat surprise.’ She takes her phone out of her pocket, thinking she can distract herself from the drama with a nice relaxing game of 2048 when it vibrates in her hand, Pretty Little Liars style.

                Scott: _Sorry had 2 practice @ lunch >:( talk to you tonight on skype tho? xoxo scotty_

Stiles sighs and throws her phone into her bag without replying. Talk about déjà vu, she thinks, as she eats her lunch by herself and forces her mind not to drift to Scott by watching Lydia Martin’s red curls tumble down her back from across the room.

 

 

 

 

\---

That night, Stiles eats her dinner and makes small talk with her dad, like usual. It’s not as though Scotty is over every night, so her dad doesn’t think anything’s up when he gets in from work to find his daughter alone at her desk pretending to do homework in between juggled battles on World of Warcraft and Runescape.

In theory and to any outsider it’s a perfectly normal evening. Stiles has gotten pretty good at faking things over the years. She faked being okay about her mom for a few years until she actually really _did_ become mostly-okay-with-it; she faked liking her babysitter’s meatloaf when she was in middle school. She faked crushes on boys when Lydia Martin _accosted_ and interrogated her during recess in second grade. She’s a pretty nervous, twitchy person at the best of times, so no one has ever really picked up on her near-constant state of lying.

Lying is an adaptable trick Stiles has since had a lot of practice on. It’s sort of her thing. She’s so good, in fact, that it’s taken her this long to realise that maybe pretending she doesn’t adore Scotty with every fibre of her being hasn’t been such a good idea. Well, it’s all pretty obvious to Stiles now - after the day she’s had, it’s sort of hard to ignore. Stiles wishes she could go back to the week before, when she actually believed that her whole ‘crush’ thing was under control and totally not a huge, earth-shattering problem.

But when it came to the whole ‘liking girls’ thing? Stiles had actually stopped lying to herself about _that_ little titbit a while ago. It’s just the rest of the world she needs to come clean to now. And she’s working on it. She is. Stiles actually really does want to tell her dad about it – at least give him some warning that biological grandkids are probably off the table.

It’s just that when you’re a closet-case with no brain-to-mouth-filter, apparently all it takes is one bad day and a plate of really good casserole for the truth to all come out. Hah – come out.

“Dad,” Stiles announces around a mouthful of casserole that makes ‘meat surprise’ look and taste like regurgitated gruel; “this casserole really nice.” She swallows. “Also, I’m really gay.” She pauses. “Well… you know. Not that there’re different stages of gay. Like, ‘hey, I’m really gay. This is my friend, who’s just sort of gay.’ And I know it’s not a phase even though Yahoo Answers and those dumb puberty books you got me said it was, so… I don’t know. You should probably return them. Complain. Sue or something.” There’s an even longer pause and Stiles can’t look at her dad. She pokes at her casserole with her fork jerkily. “This is the part where you make a stupid dad-joke. You know, like, ‘oh, hi, gay. I’m dad. Get it? Like… I’m gay, you’re dad?”

Stiles feels her face flush when she finishes her _train-wreck_ of an announcement and actually has to cast her mind back to make sure she’d taken her Adderall this morning. Why did she say all that?! God, she swears, all she has to do is open her big dumb mouth and stupid words come pouring out. She forces herself to swallow her food and put her fork down. “That was random. Sorry. I just – yeah.”

Stiles’ dad mirrors Stiles; just puts his fork down with a gentle smile. He looks sort of stunned, and after a speech like that, Stiles sort of can’t blame him. He reaches across the table and over Stiles’ plate to wrap his hands over hers, warm and comforting. “Stiles. Relax.”

Stiles lets out a breath she hadn’t even realised she’s been holding and with it comes a weight from her shoulders and layer of anxiety that has been shrouding her heart – brain, aura, whatever – for as long as she can remember. A part of her must just have decided that long enough was long enough and that she’d worn out her ‘eventuallys’ and ‘tomorrows’. She hadn’t even realised how worried she’d been of rejection from her dad, but now she knew it definitely wouldn’t happen she didn’t have to worry any more.

Before long Stiles feels her cheeks flushing and she has to force herself not to pull her hands away to cover her face. She isn’t sure whether the urge is due to embarrassment or because she suddenly feels like crying, although she supposes she can’t have one of those things without the other anyway.

“Did you think I would be angry? Or not love you? Stiles. C’mon.” Stiles dad squeezes her hand and looks at her with a teasing, soft smile on his lips. Stiles sniffs a little and chuckles.

“I dunno. It just never came out - up. Never came up. And then it just kept on not coming up and then I thought, ‘hey, why do I have to wait?’ And I just realised that I actually wanted to tell you, so… I did.” Stiles shrugs and avoids her dad’s eyes. She bites her lip and wonders if her dad can read more from her face than she would like him to, because the last thing she needs is an interrogation about girls.

Stiles hears a sigh from across the table and then the squeak of her dad’s chair on the linoleum floor. She looks up in surprise for a moment before her dad pulls her from chair to her feet and into a tight hug.

“Stiles,” her dad says seriously. He looks so _loving_ in that moment, eyes all crinkled and shiny like he’s trying hard not to cry too. He pulls back and tucks a few stray strands of Stiles’ hair behind her ears tenderly, ducking his face to look into her eyes. “Stiles, look at me. I’m always going to love you. Nothing you say will make me love you any less. Got that?” He squeezes Stiles’ shoulders like he used to when she was just a kid and he was talking to her about adult stuff. A weird sense of pride swells in her chest at the feelings.

And Stiles can’t even reply, so she just scrubs furiously at her eyes and nods until she realises her dad is waiting for her to say something. “Got it, got it. Okay, enough of this now.” She pulls away and growls up at her dad when he ruffles her hair, as though it would make any difference to the perpetual bird’s nest on top of her head.

Stiles’ dad laughs fondly and she hopes to god that the dampness in his eyes is from allergies and he’s not about to start blubbering on her, because that would just tip her over the egde.

“Well, this has just about fulfilled our awkward quota for the day, I think.” Stiles pats her dad on the arm and leans back down over the table to shovel the last of her casserole into her mouth. “I’m glad we had this talk,” she adds with her mouth full, before heading to the door.

“Really good casserole by the way, seriously,” she tags on, at the same time as her dad calls; “Hey, kid,” just before she reaches the doorway.

She braces herself against the frame and turns back to look, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

The sheriff’s eyes are definitely damp this time, shining in the fluorescent kitchen lights. “Your mom would have been so proud of you,” he says quietly. His smile is a little shaky but sincere nonetheless and Stiles feels something warm oozing outwards from her chest, making her fingertips tingle.

“Thanks, dad,” Stiles replies in a soft voice. She smiles slowly, unsure whether the nostalgia she feels is good or bad; but then the relief uncurls in her stomach like something waking up from hibernation and she lets herself grin properly, wide and open. “I’ll keep you posted on the girlfriend front,” Stiles promises with a wink, clicking her fingers and shooting her fingers at her dad like imaginary guns.

Stiles turns to leave before she has to see her dad dry his eyes, but not before she hears his exasperated sigh. Yeah, yeah, she knows she’ll never get Scotty – well, a girlfriend - acting like the complete dork she is, but she’s allowed to be excited. She just came out of the closet of the first time ever and no voices were raised and nothing was thrown in her general direction, so it’s already going better than most of the TV shows she’s seen similar things go down in. And although she’s sort of disappointed that she hadn’t come up with some sort of Ellen Page-esque speech or at _least_ done the hand thing, she’s glad she did it.

Now Stiles has one less lie to keep. Now, at least when Scotty isn’t around, she doesn’t have to have the guilt of keeping that secret over her head. She hadn’t realised how much she hated her secrets until she set them free from their cage and she doesn’t want the feeling to ever go away.

Stiles takes the stairs two at a time and sort of punches the air when she reaches the top. It feels like such a long time since she’s done anything but mope around in her misery at loving Scott – for the first time in _ages_ she can just let herself be proud of something for once. She doesn’t even think about how Scotty’s ditching her for some stupid ball-game, as though they’re freshmen again. Or how she might have to get used to eating lunch alone again. ‘Meat surprise’ just isn’t the same when there’s no one there to make bets on the ingredients with.

She celebrates with a few more quests on Runescape, but Stiles estimates that the happiness actually only lasted about half an hour in total. Because by the time the sky turns turquoise, she’s popped an Adderall and finds herself sitting and staring at herself in the mirror for another half hour. It gets fully-dark outside but she doesn’t get up to turn on the light. By the time she actually starts to focus on what she can see, her face is flushed and her eyes wide, her hair a complete mess and flopping over her forehead in the reflection.

“Can’t go back,” Stiles whispers to herself. She’s never been one of those weird mutterers on the bus before, but she figures that since she missed out on the motivational speech thing earlier that she’s entitled to at least one.

“Get it together, Stilinski. You told your dad; that was the hard part.” Lies. At least she’d known her dad wouldn’t ignore her for the rest of her life – they lived under the same roof, for god’s sake. She didn’t think anything would _ever_ stop her dad from reminding her to clean her room. “She’s your best friend, you idiot. She’s not going to hate you.” Another lie. Scotty would be totally in her right to never want to hang out with Stiles again if she finds out what a pervert Stiles has been. “You don’t even have to tell her you like her. You can wait, see her reaction to the whole gay thing and then bring it up afterwards.” A compromise, she tells herself. Like testing the waters.

Stiles’ reflection stares at her blankly in the mirror. What if Scotty can tell tomorrow that something’s changed? She’s opened the floodgates, headed down the slippery-slope of coming out. Stiles can’t exactly change her mind now; she can’t go back downstairs to her dad and be like, ‘hey, you know what I just told you? Scratch that, I think I’m going back into my closet for a little while longer where it’s nice and cosy.’

And she’s done with thinking in weird gay metaphors, too.

Stiles is going to tell Scott and everything is going to be fine.

For whatever reason, it still takes Stiles hours to fall asleep that night. She thinks it’s because of that stupid Sigur Ros song stuck in her head.

 

 

 

 

\---

“Dude, are you seriously okay?” Scott asks her in the morning as they walk through the gates to school. Scott is pushing her bike alongside her and arms are tanned and smooth in her short-sleeved t-shirt. She’s got a Nike hoodie knotted by the sleeves around her hips and more than anything Stiles wants to trace her fingers against the sliver of skin just above it. “You’re acting weird. Well, weirder than normal. Is it because… because of the training? And yesterday lunch? Because I’m really sorry. The whole team’s pissed off about it. There’s just nothing we can do to change Coach’s mind.”

Stiles swallows hard and looks down at her hands, which are white-knuckling the strap of her messenger bag. “What? I’m fine. I told you – I understand. Stop worrying.” Stiles forces a smile and avoids Scott’s concerned and worried gaze. Honestly, after the night she’s had, filled with tossing and turning and endless worrying, she really cannot find it within herself to put on a better show so early in the morning.

“I actually have to do a thing for the magazine before school… So, um...” Stiles trails off and scrubs a hand across the back of her neck. Her messy ponytail is still tucked into the collar of her plaid shirt from where she got dressed quickly after oversleeping. “Yeah. So I’ll just see you later, okay?”

Scotty’s brow furrows in confusion in that dumb way that makes her dumb face look just like a puppy and Stiles bites her lip, feeling _terrible_. “C’mon, Stiles. I’m sorry. Don’t ditch me,” Scott says through a pout.

They’ve reached the bike shelter but Scott doesn’t dip into her bag for her lock. Instead, she tightens her curly ponytail and looks over at Stiles with concern all over her face. All Stiles can do in return is stare at her incredulously, eyebrows raised – Scotty _has_ to notice that irony.

She does, after a second. Realisation forms on Scott’s face like it’s fallen from space and landed in front of her and she goes from concerned to apologetic in the space of about a quarter of a second. “I really am sorry, Stiles, and the second this stupid game is over I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Scott steps forward and worries at her lower lip. Her hands waver above Stiles’ as though she’s trying to talk herself into reaching out to hold them, but Stiles’ knows it’s anything but the romantic gesture she wants. That stupid look of guilt on Scott’s stupid, perfect face is seemingly sincere, but rather than feeling comforted, Stiles just feels _bad_.

“I know, Scott,” Stiles says slowly and sadly, because really, it’s not even about the dumb practice anymore. It’s about _Stiles_ and how she’s so in love with Scott that the slightest indication of separation between them sends her head reeling and her stomach churning horribly.

Scott obviously must win – or lose – whatever internal battle she’d been having, because a moment later she’s wrapping her hands around Stiles’ and stepping closer. “You’re looking really tired, Stiles. You can tell me whatever’s on your mind, you know – you can get mad at me,” she says softly. Scotty does this thing where she ducks her head, looks right into your face as though she can see straight through you. Suddenly, Stiles just wishes she could. It would take the weight of her secret from Stiles’ shoulders, that’s for certain.

She swallows hard and shrugs, because, shit, Stiles doesn’t think she’s ever stood still for such a long time in her whole life. “I’m not even mad at you, Scott; it isn’t that. It’s never been about that, I just… Okay. So, there’s… this thing. I have something that I should say.” God, Stiles is so articulate sometimes that it _astounds_ her.

Scott’s frown just deepens and she nods seriously, encouraging Stiles to continue. Finally, this is it – Stiles can just get it all off her chest and what will happen, well… she’ll just have to take it as it comes.

She opens her mouth and leans forward, ready to lower her voice and spill it all out, when the bell rings right above her and she literally _jumps_ about ten feet in the air. “Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles exclaims, clutching at her chest and squeezing her eyes shut. “Seriously, what is _with_ this place? Was that a set-up? This has to be a set-up.”

Stiles gets her breath back after a moment of panting and quickly turns round to look for Scott – only Scott’s not there anymore.

All Stiles sees is a whirl of lacrosse sticks in the air and a sea of red and white jerseys and then someone starts shouting that dumb chant from High School Musical. She frowns and scans through the crowd which bursts into sudden raucous applause as Stiles’ watches Jackson take a ridiculous bow. It’s lik he thinks he’s a king gracing peasants with his presence, not the co-captain of a high school lacrosse team. And - yep, there’s Scott. She’s laughing and shaking her head, curtseying with her awkward charm while the rest of the team and seemingly half the fucking _school_ watch on gleefully.

Stiles feels her blood boil and her face grow hot with embarrassment. People push past her to see what’s going on and Stiles just sinks into the wall behind her to shake her head and scoff at the _absurdity_ of it all. After a few more seconds, Stiles decides she’s seen enough and Scott obviously isn’t coming back. She sort of just wants the ground to open up and pull her inside, but the bell did ring, after all, so she’s technically late.

Her heart jumps in her chest once on the way to homeroom when she thinks she hears Scott calling after her, but it’s only Greenberg. She ignores him and takes her seat at the back of the class, feeling humiliated and pathetic. Scott doesn’t even come to homeroom.

 

 

 

 

\---

Despite Stiles’ phone buzzing in her pocket incessantly all morning, Stiles figures she’ll let Scott have her glory, or whatever. Scott obviously didn’t think Stiles was being serious, or she would have paid more attention. Obviously. But okay – it might also have more to do with her _embarrassment_ after being so ready to tell Scott everything, only to be ditched in favour of the dumb team. In fact, thinking about that sort of makes her feel as though she’d rather hide in the bathrooms all lunchtime than have to face Scott.

So, of course, that’s what she does.

Except when Stiles rushes to the toilets at the start of lunch to go through with her plan, she bumps into Lydia Martin. Literally. The red-haired girl is touching up her already-flawless makeup and running her fingers through her hair when Stiles collides with her from the side, sending them both reeling into the sink.

“Oh my god! Lydia! I’m so sorry!” Stiles practically shouts her words as she pulls herself away from Lydia frantically and reaches out to help her, but the girl has already righted herself and is smoothing out her dress with a raised eyebrow.

“In a rush, are we?” She asks with a pointed look and delicately picks up her brown eyeliner from the sink with pursed lips. Stiles flushes scarlet and scrubs at the back of her neck.

 “Sorry,” Stiles just says again with a forced smile, deciding she can’t be bothered to make up some story to defend herself against whatever toilet-related issues Lydia might assume she has. She’d rather deal with a rumour that she has explosive diarrhoea than one saying she’s in love with her best friend _any day_.

Lydia just hums in response as she reapplies lipgloss and Stiles silently moves into a cubicle. Then she kicks herself for being dumb because no _way_ is she going to pee with Lydia standing outside. No way on Earth. Instead, Stiles just sits on the closed lid swearing silently and playing Flappy Bird for a few stressful seconds before fumbling with the paper dispenser and flushing.

She washes her hands to keep up appearances and dries them on the long hems of her shirt. “What’s up?” Stiles asks, because Lydia is looking at her weirdly through the reflection in the mirror. “Is there something on my face?”

Stiles swears she sees Lydia reflection roll her eyes. “There’s nothing on your face, Stiles.” She sighs loudly in a way that reminds Stiles strangely of her dad when he gets annoyed with Stiles’ antics and Stiles scoffs. “Nothing’s up. Thank you for asking. You, on the other hand, have something up.” Lydia twists around to face Stiles, recapping her mascara tube with flourish. “So - what’s up, Stiles? You have my full attention. And trust me; there are people in this school that would kill for that, so make the most of it.”

Stiles frowns and shies away from Lydia’s suddenly scrutinising gaze. Sometimes she swears the girl has some kind of psychic sense. Maybe that’s why her hair is so big, she thinks. “What? Nothing’s up. Doc.” Stiles glances at her reflection in the mirror quickly just to make sure there really isn’t anything on her face. “Thanks for the concern, though.”

There’s a long pause and Stiles hears Lydia sigh again, but it’s softer this time - somehow less scary-sounding. Stiles can’t help but let herself relax against the sink a little, and that’s all it takes for Lydia to cross the room and flip the lock on the bathroom door.

“Seriously, Stiles. You haven’t been this silent for as long as I can remember.” Stiles isn’t looking but hears Lydia settle against the sink beside her. “And I’m making the assumption here that your problems aren’t actually toilet-related, because really – if they are then spare me the details, _please_.”

That actually surprises a chuckle out of Stiles and she smiles gratefully up at Lydia for it. “I shouldn’t really talk about it,” Stiles says in a voice that must have some secret code just for Lydia, because the girl’s hair bobs up and down as she nods.

“So this is about Scotty, isn’t it?” Lydia says in a matter-of-fact voice. “You’re jealous of her for being the lacrosse star.”

Stiles stares, feeling as though she’s somehow frowning and raising her eyebrows at the same time because, seriously – what? “Um, no, that’s not it at all,” she says, confused. “Why would you think that?”

Lydia crosses her arms across her chest and mirrors Stiles’ look of confusion. “Because it’s written all over your face. You had your moment of glory on the field freshman year and now you obviously miss it, what with your best friend suddenly being the centre of attention and all.”

Stiles can only wave her hands in the air uselessly and shake vigorously her head. She feels her face getting hot, because how can Lydia think all that of her? They’ve not been the best of friends, granted, but they’ve known each other even longer than she’s known Scott. “No, seriously, you’ve got it all wrong, Lydia, I-“

“There’s no need to freak out on me, Stiles. Obviously it’s natural – you’re both the only child in your families so there’s bound to be some sort of rivalry between the two of you.” Lydia turns back to the mirror as she talks and Stiles is starting to think that the girl must just really like touching her own lips, because how many times does a girl need to check her lipgloss? “You’ve been friends for such a long time that you were bound to start moving on at some point and I suppose this is just the catalyst or scapegoat for some other problem, like, I don’t know, maybe-“

“Jesus Christ, Lydia, that’s – I’m in love with her, okay?!” Stiles all but shouts the words in the tiny bathroom before silence falls over them – the only sound comes from the faint dripping of the tap in the corner. Stiles flushes and does a literal face-palm. “There’s your answer. I’m not _jealous_ or whatever rubbish that Freudian shit you just spewed was, so like. Whatever.”

Lydia’s heels clip on the linoleum of the floor and the next thing Stiles knows, she’s surrounded the soft floral of the girl’s perfume and engulfed in a tight hug around her shoulders. Is it the law that you have to silently hug someone when they come out to you? “Of course you are, Stiles.” Lydia says softly. “I just needed you to say it out loud to someone before you gave yourself an aneurysm.”

Stiles pulls back a little, struggling in Lydia’s grasp. “I – what? You knew?” Lydia just raises her eyebrows and Stiles huffs, shaking her head. “Of course you knew; you know everything, Miss All-Seeing-Eye. I swear to god you’re psychic. Have you been checked out for that? I mean, it’s ridiculous.”

“Sweetheart, please,” Lydia says as she pulls back and gracefully unpicks a strand of hair from her lipgloss. She gives Stiles an obvious once-over. “You’re hardly discrete. I’m fairly sure half the school knows you’re crazy about each other.”

There’s a silent moment while Stiles replays Lydia’s sentence in her head. “Wait, what? About _each other?_ No, no way. You’re so wrong, Lydia. So wrong. Like… Here’s right;” Stiles gestures with her hand, drawing a line in the air with one finger – “And here’s you, all the way in wrong-ville.” She stretches her other hand as far as she can and waves it enthusiastically. The movement activates the hand-drier by the door and it kicks into action loudly while Stiles jerks away with a yelp. “Seriously. Wrong.”

“If you say so, but you’re the one who just called me psychic. And someone psychic is _usually_ someone you should listen to.” Lydia uses the hand-drier to do some magic hair-fluffing trick before unlocking the door. “Text me when you feel like coming to your senses and actually _doing_ something about all of this, won’t you?” She says in the doorway, before she’s gone with a flourish of red hair. So _dramatic_.

Stiles feels drained after the exchange, so she just sits on the edge of the sink for a little longer, waving awkwardly at the people who come in to actually use the bathroom. When girls start coming in twice, just to see if she’s still there, she figures she’s outstayed her welcome and takes the hint to leave.

Stiles can’t even find it within herself to feel hungry, what with the stress swirling in the pit of her stomach, so she passes by the cafeteria and goes to the tiny room just off the English department that belongs to the literary club. She’s not _technically_ meant to go in there unless the session is scheduled and approved by a teacher, but whatever. Since she’s the founding and only member of the literary club she figures she can do what she wants.

Stiles spends the rest of lunchtime thinking about what Lydia said and reading over the plan for the next issue of the magazine, which, obviously, has to cover the stupid lacrosse game. She’s resting her head on top of her arms on the table when the bell finally goes after what seems like _hours_ and the three unread texts from Scott weigh her phone down in her pocket guiltily.

 

 

 

 ---

When Stiles gets home that night, she hangs with her dad pretty much all evening. He comes in earlier than usual because they had a lot of deputies in that day, so he makes a lasagne and they sit at the kitchen table and talk while it’s in the oven, filling the room with the familiar smell. It reminds Stiles of her mum and she idly braids her hair while they’re talking, just like her mom used to do.

“Dad? If Scotty happens to phone or turn up at the house unexpected, can you maybe tell her I’m busy? Just for a while,” Stiles asks quietly as she knots the end of her braid with an elastic band from the kitchen drawer. She can already sense the look of sadness her dad is sending her, so she doesn’t look up.

There’s a sigh before her dad replies, and his hand reaches over to rub Stiles’ shoulder soothingly. “I’m not going to ask what’s going on. But Stiles, if she doesn’t love you for who you are, then you’re better off without her. That’s what your mother would have said. She was always better at this stuff than me.”

Stiles smiles down at her lap sadly. Her initial impression that her dad must think Scotty’s not her friend because Stiles came out to her, or whatever – but on second thoughts, maybe Stiles’ dad understands more than he’s letting on. She lifts her head and looks up at him from under her eyelashes, trying so hard not to cry, until her dad just pats her shoulder a few more times and gets up to take the lasagne out of the oven.

 

 

 

 ---

And that’s pretty much how it goes for a while. Scott’s practice starts early and ends late, so they don’t walk with each other into school and Stiles mostly hangs out in the literary club room for lunch. She starts bringing her own food, as pathetic as it is, making sandwiches in the kitchen when her dad has left for work so he doesn’t worry. In the few classes they share Stiles mostly sticks to herself, but she can’t help noticing the dark circles under Scott’s eyes. She’s obviously tired and the teachers let her off because of the game, but Stiles knows she’s not doing her best in most subjects. Her fingers itch to reach out and shake Scott until she promises to get some proper sleep, but that would obviously not end well.

Stiles had replied to Scott’s texts, but not until a few days later. She just couldn’t think of an un-lame way to say she was upset that Scott didn’t have time to stick around and wait for her dumb coming-out speech. In the end Stiles had just replied with a one-word answer, thinking that was probably the least embarrassing thing to do. It wasn’t that she deliberately intended to ignore Scott – it had been a temporary solution originally, but Scott, being the anxiety-ridden lump she is, gets too nervous every time she tries to fix things between them.

While Scott really is busy practicing, Stiles has to find ways to entertain herself. One day she’d actually gone into the cafeteria, thinking her twitchy nervousness might be from a lack of whatever drug they put in the ‘meat surprise.’ Well – to be honest, she’s been haunted by the image of Scott eating her lunch alone at their table, like Stiles had that day. But Stiles had walked into the room to find the whole lacrosse team sitting at one big table, Scott one side of Jackson at the top end while Lydia sat looking bored on the other side. Stupid high school jock hierarchy.

Stiles hadn’t stuck around to catch Scott’s eye. She’d just headed back to her little room in the corner of the English department to mope some more before class started. God, she’s pathetic. She’s only just realised how few friends she actually has without Scott and it’s _ridiculous_.

Stiles wouldn’t describe herself as lonely, exactly.  The main feeling she can relate it to is the time she’d been sent to summer-camp for a week when she was about ten, while her dad was sent up-state for some training course. He’d thought it would do her good to get some time alone or some bullshit. The whole week her chest had ached and the counsellors had told her it was from the damp of the lake air, but Stiles’ had known better. Her insides felt as though they were shivering at night when she tried to get to sleep in the strange bed, because she missed home and she missed her mom and her dad and Scotty. It was only a year after her mom had died and that had made everything so much worse.

When the week had finally finished and her dad came to pick her up, Stiles had winded herself around him like a boa constrictor until he promised he would never send her away again. She’d forced her dad to let Scott sleep over and they’d made a fort out of her duvet to hide under, only coming out for food. It had taken three days of that before Stiles felt okay enough to go back to normal.

Sitting in the literary magazine’s tiny box-room by herself at lunchtime made her chest feel sort of like that all over again.

 

 

 

 

\---

Stiles has just about had enough of, well, _everything_ by the Friday before game week rolls around. She’d thought the ridiculous team spirit was bad enough before – but of course, it wouldn’t end with the banners or the balloons or the stupid chanting. Every corner she turns reminds Stiles that, hey, Scotty’s the school it-girl. And of course, it reminds Stiles that she hasn’t spoken more than ten words to her best friend in at least as many days. It’s as though the rest of the school’s team spirit is sucking the life out of her, leaving Stiles sulky and drained and just about as anti-team spirit as possible.

Stiles forces herself to look at Scott as little as possible in school. Not because she doesn’t _want_ to admire Scott’s beautiful side-profile in homeroom or watch her from the bleachers during practice the way she used to do. Stiles misses Scott more than anything, which is pretty ridiculous, because they’re never more than fifty feet apart anyway and it’s not like it’s been months. She just misses their closeness. She misses bumping hands when she dips into the popcorn bowl on Friday nights, and dammit, she misses having to wash Scott’s mud and sweat out of her sheets every other day. Not that she would ever tell Scott that, even if they did suddenly become miraculous BFFs again overnight.

Stiles just can’t look at Scotty properly anymore. She tells herself it’s better that way, that she might be able to stop the stupid crush that got her into this whole mess if she goes cold-turkey, but she knows that’s the not the truth.

It’s because Stiles knows that whatever she sees in Scott will upset her even more. Is a happy-looking Scott better than a sad-as-Stiles-feels-looking Scott? She’s given it some thought and she just has _no idea_. Of course, Stiles doesn’t ever want to think of Scotty hurting, because try as she might to change things, she still just adores her.

But if Stiles happens to catch sight of Scotty laughing and having fun without her as though she doesn’t even care about Stiles… well. Stiles thinks she’s lived through enough ridiculous heartbreak to go without that.

She’s maybe gotten used to the whole _avoid Scotty at all costs_ thing, until Coach Finstock corners Stiles after economics.

“Stilinski,” he says, stopping her before she can escape from the classroom at the speed of light like she usually does. “Although I’m still disappointed that you never came to your senses and re-joined the lacrosse team, or at the very _least_ took Greenberg with you to that literary club of yours when you left, I’d like to offer you a favour. A chance to redeem yourself in my good books.” Coach is perched on the edge of his desk and smiling at Stiles in a way that makes her narrow her eyes suspiciously.

“Are we talking extra-credit good books? Or the whole ‘well done, you get to clean out my office’ trick? I’m cautious.” Stiles watches the rest of the class leave and wonders whether making a run for the door would be worth the strain on her legs.

“Ah, Stilinski.” Coach claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and the literary club camera bounces on her chest from where it hangs around her neck. He smiles down at her and all Stiles can do is raise her eyebrows doubtfully while he talks. “You’re so world-weary. That’s why I like you, kid. You’re streetwise. No, this would get you extra-credit. Definitely.”

Stiles sniffs and glares at Finstock, waiting for the catch. “I’m listening.”

“I want you to do another article this week before the game. I’m talking interviews with the team – well, the main team, and you know who I’m talking about when I say ‘main team,’ don’t you? Scotty, Jackson, Danny. Photos, interviews – the works.” He ducks down to eyelevel with Stiles and arcs his hand across the air in front of them, eyes sparkling. “I’m picturing a double spread of action shots. I want to get it framed for my office. It’ll work _great_ to get the school morale up and help to cover that god-awful wallpaper.”

Stiles hadn’t realised she was clenching her hands into fists until her palms start itching painfully. “Well, personally, I think morale could do with a little lowering,” she says sarcastically as the chorus of the school chant she never bothered to learn the words for floods down the all outside. She waves her hand pointedly in the general direction of the sound, pulling a face at Coach. “And I’ve already spent about ten hours on a page-long article dedicated to the team. If you want me to add any more I’ll have to take out something else and the catering club will literally burn me alive if I take out any of their recipes. I’m a busy woman, Coach. My time and effort is very sought after. I can’t be seen to show favouritism.” And it is ridiculous how much time and effort Stiles puts into her dumb magazine. God, if she doesn’t get to hand-pick which Ivy League school she goes to after all of this she’s just going to lose her shit.

“Stiles, I don’t care what you take out. In fact, you have my permission to cut out the dedications page – no one cares that so-and-so from the Chemistry department’s cat died peacefully in her sleep last Wednesday. Hell, just make the font smaller, I don’t know. You’ll find a way to do it, I’m sure.” Stiles’ face must show her dislike of the idea, because Coach huffs and leans back against his desk. “Look, I’m just sick of the two of you moping around and not talking to each other, or, hell, anyone. It’s not right – you’re the mischievous anti-couple of the school.”

“The – what?” If Stiles ever forgot why she gave up lacrosse and vowed never to return to it, she’s remembering now. “What are you talking about?”

“You and McCall, Stilinski. It’s ridiculous. So this is an order, from your coach – well, your ex-coach, your teacher – to go and talk to that girl. Get her head back into the game.”

Stiles’ jaw drops and her hands wave in the air in front of her, as though searching for the words to reply. “What?” She asks, her voice breathless. Her life is starting to repeat itself in weird ways – she wonders if Lydia and Coach have some sort of plan amongst the two of them.

“That’s my girl,” is all Coach replies. He swings down from his desk and heads to the door, calling over his shoulder as he walks. “I look forward to reading it, Stilinski. Remember - double page spread.”

Stiles stands in the room alone for a second longer. She isn’t sure whether to be angry or grateful for the opportunity and excuse to talk to Scott. She isn’t really sure of anything anymore.

 

 

 

 

\---

Stiles certainly doesn’t feel grateful when she finds herself by the bleachers as the lacrosse team warm up for practice after school. Her camera is hanging round her neck and iPad in clutched firmly in her hand while the lacrosse team do lacrosse team stuff. In fact, she’s sort of shaking as she gets nearer to the field– or specifically, nearer to Scotty, who’s doing some sort of bendy-stretch that sends Stiles’ blush right up to her hairline.

No one notices her for a moment; they’re all too busy chatting amongst themselves, even Coach. Stiles bites down on her fear and heads over to Scott, muttering ‘ _get it together, Stilinski_ ,’ under her breath as she walks. She has to do the dumb interviews whether she wants to or not, so she may as well get the awkward part over with early.

“Hi,” Stiles says when she gets close enough to Scotty. Her voice is breathless as though she’s run ten laps instead of walking three steps at a snail’s pace. “I have to interview you guys again. Dumb, right?” Stiles says, all in a rush and then there’s a silence while Scott just stares in surprise. Stiles grabs the camera hanging around her neck and takes a few snaps of the team around them, if only to hide the blush on her face.

“Hi, Stiles,” Stiles hears Scott say in a quiet voice and she peeks around the camera cautiously. “Are you okay? I’ve been trying to talk to you for ages but it’s like you’ve been avoiding me or something.” Scott laughs a little nervously and Stiles notices with a clench in her chest that Scott’s cut her hair. The neat ends to her pony-tail are a horrible reminder that time has passed for both of them, even if it’s only been a little while – god, Stiles is such a drama queen. Focus, idiot, she scolds herself.

“I just thought you needed to focus on the whole lacrosse thing. I know it takes a lot of skill to catch a ball with a net on a stick and throw it into another net,” Stiles teases and she doesn’t even need to force on her smile onto her face – Scotty’s laugh eases it out of her before she even realises what’s happening.

“I’ve missed you, Stiles.” Scott says. She’s leaning on her crosse and kicking at the grass with the toe of her boot, squinting in the sunlight. There’s a fresh splattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and Stiles wants to trace them with her fingertips – but she’s drawn from her fantasy when Scott talks again. “Where do you go at lunch? The last time I spoke to you was right before you wanted to tell me something, and –“

“And you got rushed off to play team captain. I remember.” Stiles rubs at the back of her neck and busies herself with the camera again, feeling like a complete jerk. “I can’t even remember what I was going to tell you now,” she says with a dismissive shrug.

“I’ve wanted to say sorry since then. Didn’t you get my texts?” Scott’s worry oozes into her voice and Stiles looks up at her from under her eyelashes.

“Don’t worry, Scott. I’m just an idiot.” Stiles clears her throat loudly to fill the silence before talking again. “Anyway, how are you feeling about the game? This is off the record, don’t worry,” Stiles teases quickly, trying to get the conversation away from where it’s heading. Talking to Scott is just the same as it was before all the dumb drama, only the separation has obviously done nothing to stem Stiles’ desire. She wants to leap across the stupid lacrosse stick between them and lick away the beads of sweat gathering at the perfect Cupid’s bow on Scott’s lip.

Scott’s frowning like the conversation switched topics way too quickly for her liking, so Stiles chews on her lip nervously. People are starting to move around and Coach is yelling something, but Scott pays no notice so Stiles doesn’t either. “Nervous, but you know. It’s just a game. Doesn’t really matter. Mostly I just want to sleep. For the record though,” Scott gestures to the iPad Stiles is holding; “Obviously, we’re gonna win this thing and me and Jackson are really looking forward to it, but we can’t do this without the support of the school… and stuff.”

Stiles smiles fondly and quickly types it down after remembering that, hey, she does actually have a reason for coming here that isn’t drooling over Scott’s tanned legs in her shorts. “I think I just found my headline – ‘Scott Thanks the Support of the School and Stuff.’ The sibilance is going to go down a treat, trust me.” Stiles has a sudden flashback of going through Scott’s word-of-the-week app one day and teaching her the difference between sibilance and alliteration. She shakes her head, shields her eyes from the sun and forces herself to concentrate on the tinkling liquid-happiness that is Scott’s laugh.

“Awesome,” Scott says sarcastically, still laughing a little. Stiles realises with a start that Scott’s face is flushed in a way that goes past the summer sunburn and her insides twist a little with excitement.

“So, um,” Stiles says, encouraged suddenly. “Are you busy practising tonight night? Or will you guys be doing some sort of pre-game ritual, you know – sacrificing virgins and stuff?”

Scott’s face falls suddenly and she looks at Stiles with an intense expression, as though she’s trying to send out some sort of psychic signal. It’s a thing Scott does a lot when she’s trying to make sure Stiles’ doesn’t freak out and Stiles would be offended if previous experience hadn’t proved that, hey, if Scott thinks she’s going to freak out, she’s probably going to freak out.

“There’s actually a party at Danny’s house tonight. Well – a team gathering,” Scott says, making air-quotes around the ‘team gathering’ part. Stiles nods, feeling her heart sink, because Scott is probably going to want to take it easy this weekend since the game is on Monday, so – “What about Saturday?” Scott adds suddenly, interrupting Stiles’ inner monologue. “I actually have the weekend off to rest, but I could, like… rest at your house. If you wanted.”

Stiles feels a smile growing slowly on her face. “Like old times?” She blurts before blushing and wringing her fingers a little uncomfortably. “Wow, that was pathetic. It’s been, what less than two weeks? I mean, yeah, totally. Just come over.”

Scott doesn’t look cringed out or embarrassed for Stiles though, when she finally looks up after a long pause. “It’s okay, Stiles. It’s been really weird for me without you, too,” she says with an earnest smile and then her crosse is falling to the floor so she can wrap her strong arms around Stiles’ shoulders. It takes Stiles by surprise, but the familiar and not at all unpleasant combination of laundry detergent and sweat meets her nose and she’s dissolving into the safe, warm comfort of Scotty’s arms. She buries her face into Scott’s neck and if her lips press against the skin there a little too tenderly, for once Stiles just doesn’t care. Her hands ball into tight fists in the back of Scott’s shirt and she never wants to let go, but then there’s a sharp whistle right by her ear and they spring apart.

“Alright!” Coach shouts while Scott and Stiles rub at their ears and share sidelong looks. God, Stiles has missed that – their secret looks. “If you two don’t break this up I’m going to have to make an entirely inappropriate joke about girls and their feelings, which will take at least a half hour out of practice time while Scotty here rips into me about sexism and misandry, so, seriously – break this up. Stiles, you can call over whoever you want to interview but I want it over with in twenty minutes, so get a move on. The rest of you – laps. What are you all standing here for?”

Stiles’ ear is still ringing and she mumbles angrily to herself as she walks over the bleachers, Jackson and Danny trailing behind her. When she glances over her shoulder and catches Scotty looking at her from across the field, she has to force herself not to beam and wave like a love-struck dork.

 

 

 

 

\---

To Lydia: _Lydia, I need your help. SOS. Emergency. 911._

To Lydia: _Lydia! What part of ‘emergency’ isn’t getting into your head?_

To Lydia: _Do you only understand morse code or what?! …---…!!!_

Stiles tosses her phone onto her bed and buries her face into her arms on top of her desk. What use is it having a psychic genius for a friend when she doesn’t even reply to her texts? Stiles can’t stop thinking back to earlier in the afternoon and how great talking to Scott had been, but obviously the happiness couldn’t last, because once again Stiles is _freaking_ _out_. Never before has Stiles related so much to the whole ‘rollercoaster’ metaphor for life.

She’d managed to take her mind off it all for a little while by rewriting the lacrosse article and sending it through to the printing department ready for Monday, but now that’s done she’s got nothing but her thoughts for company and it’s pretty pitiful, to say the least.

As much as Stiles had loved chatting with Scott earlier, she can’t help but feel like nothing will change unless she makes it change herself. If everything between them just goes right back to how it was before, it’s only a matter of time before Stiles loses it all over again. Who knows – maybe their separation will be permanent if it happens again, or at least as permanent as Stiles had thought it would be a week ago. She just _can’t_ go through losing Scott all over again. Stiles knows she’s going to have to do something about it and this time she will, because to say she’s learnt her lesson the hard way is the understatement of the century.

She’s listening to a random playlist on her iPod dock, loud enough that her dad can’t hear her thundering around in her room. Stiles isn’t actually even sure he’s home – her dad’s been spending a lot of time with Melissa McCall lately, which would be the best thing ever if that wasn’t, you know, _the mother of the love of her life_ , or anything. If Stiles’ dad beats her into kissing a McCall she honestly doesn’t know what she’ll do.

Twenty One Pilots finishes with gusto before the playlist skips on to that stupid Sigur Ros song _again_ and Stiles lets out an almighty groan. She skips it after less than a second of the introduction and the next song is some random one by Neutral Milk Hotel and only marginally less gut-wrenching, but whatever – Stiles feels like letting herself sulk. Why break the habit of a lifetime? Or, well, the habit of a few weeks.

Stiles is staring at her phone on the bed accusingly, wondering whether she should just put on some Morrissey and call it a night, when all of a sudden the screen lights up. She jolts and double takes – the thought that maybe she had made it ring with magic mind-powers distracts her for a second before she can actually answer it. The caller ID says it’s Lydia and somehow even the ringtone of her phone sounds put-out and impatient when she knows it’s Lydia on the other end.

Stiles clears her throat bitchily before speaking. “You’ve reached the Stilinski residence; sorry, Stiles can’t come to the phone right now because she’s _actually died from old_ -“

“Shut it, Stilinski. You sent those texts fourteen minutes ago; that’s hardly a long time. If we put it in a way you can relate to then it’s shorter than a SpongeBob episode.” Stiles rolls her eyes and hears Lydia sighing in a long-suffering sort of way. “Word on the street is that you and Scott shared a delightfully Sapphic moment on the lacrosse field this afternoon. Does that mean your situation has improved?”

Stiles feels her face flush at Lydia’s choice of words and is grateful the other girl can’t see her. Conversations with Lydia are far better when she can hide her face, Stiles decides. “I guess,” she replies doubtfully. There’s a moment of silence during which Lydia is obviously waiting for Stiles to continue and since the silence is seemingly free of judgement and insults, she takes it as encouragement. “I mean, we didn’t exactly apologise for anything. I suppose we didn’t really need to, no shots were fired, it was just me having a secret freak-out, I guess. But I’m _so done_ with being, you know, just friends. All that radio silence has really put everything into perspective. I just want to tell her now. Does that make sense?”

“No, Stiles. I can’t say I’ve ever personally felt the need to tell my best friend I love her,” Lydia muses dryly. “But I do understand. You don’t want things to just be exactly the same. You want something to change and you’re right to make your move sooner rather than later.”

“Right! Change. I want some ch-ch-ch-changes. To turn and face the strange.” Stiles hums under her breath as she flips through the Bowie discography on her iPod to look for the song, snorting at her own cleverness and holding her phone up to speaker for Lydia to hear. “I don’t want to be a richer man, Lydia!”

Stiles is still chuckling when she puts the phone back to her ear, but exchanges laughing for shouting when she realises Lydia’s apparently just abandoned her phone somewhere. “Fine, no more Bowie, god, point taken. I really believe that everyone to have a good dance party to that song at least once a week. But seriously, Lydia, you have to help me. How do I tell her?”

Lydia reappears on the line with a contemplative sigh. “Well I wouldn’t do it with a dramatic rendition of eighties pop music, for a start. When are you seeing her again? Tell me it’s before the game on Monday.”

Stiles suddenly wishes she has a phone cord to twirl around her fingers as she lays back on her bed, because this is the first time she’s ever talked about ‘crushes’ with someone on the phone. It makes her feel like she’s in a high school movie or something. “Yeah. I asked her if she was free tonight but she has some sort of team gathering, so she’s coming over tomorrow. It’s ridiculous how excited I am to hang out with her again. She’s just the coolest person ever and I don’t even know why I was such an idiot anymore-“

“Honey, please. We all know you’re crazy about Scott McCall. That’s old news. Don’t give yourself an aneurysm. What we need to figure out now is how you’re going to tell her.” There’s a pause, rustling, and just when Stiles is about to say something when Lydia’s voice reappears; “Come over tonight and we’ll figure it out. Bring some pyjamas and the nicest pair of jeans you own, okay? You know the ones I’m talking about. They’re the only girl pair you own, if I’m not mistaken. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that drainpipe jeans and skinny jeans aren’t the same thing?”

Stiles’ relief at the confident tone in Lydia’s voice is quickly replaced by suspicion – and then fear. “Wait, if I’m just sleeping over then why do I need to bring a change of clothes? What are you planning? Lydia, I swear to god –“

A funny buzzing noise rings in her ear and Stiles breaks off when she realises that, yep, Lydia’s hung up on her. She frowns at the phone for a second before getting up to shove some of her crap into a bag, because who is she to disobey queen Lydia? And really, what’s the worst that’s going to happen? Stiles has no idea, but it feels like there are butterflies in her stomach when she thinks about whatever Lydia’s got prepared.

 

 

 

 

\---

Lydia opens the door after three knocks, somehow managing to look both impatient and excited at the same time. Her hair is in two simple braids hanging over her shoulders and she looks more normal than Stiles can remember seeing her in, well, years. “Hey, Stiles,” she says as sticks her head out of the doorway and looks up and down the empty street, before pulling Stiles inside and shutting the front door behind her.

Stiles stares at the front door sceptically and then back to Lydia. “Are you harbouring a fugitive or having a friend over for the night? Am I missing something?” Stiles harrumphs, offended. “I know I’m sort of a dork but is it really that big a crime to be spotted with me?” Stiles is confused and more than a little freaked out, because Lydia is scary at the best of times even when she doesn’t have that crazy glint in her eyes.

“Don’t throw a tantrum, sweetheart. I was just checking to see whether any of the lacrosse team had gotto Danny’s house yet,” Lydia says, gesturing towards the door and presumably to Danny’s house across the street.

Stiles stays confused for a moment longer, before her hand tightens on the strap of her backpack and her eyes go wide. “Oh, no. No way. We are _not_ crashing the team’s gathering.”

Lydia spins on her heels back to Stiles from halfway up the stairs. “First of all, we’re not crashing anything. I don’t _crash_. Ever. And a gathering is just what people call a party waiting to happen. Danny said it a gathering so random freshmen wouldn’t turn up looking for a keg. But trust me – by the time we get there it will be a party.” She’s smiling with too many teeth and all Stiles can do is laugh cautiously back, that nervous-excitement eating away at her insides.

“If you say so,” she tells Lydia uncertainly. She chews at her bottom lip as she kicks off her Vans and trails up the stairs after Lydia. “I trust you, but right now I’m having horrible visions of me leaning in to tell Scott and, I don’t know, falling over or insulting her or doing something really embarrassing. Did I mention that I’m not good at parties?”

“You didn’t have to tell me,” Lydia says teasingly, but she’s smiling, so Stiles just smiles too and tries to calm the nervousness building inside her.

Stiles hasn’t been in Lydia’s room in years and she’s redecorated – gone are the Disney posters on the walls and cuddly toys on her bed, replaced by stacks of books and a ridiculous amounts of throw pillows. “Your room is really pretty,” Stiles comments as she trails her finger along the dresser, looking at all the photos in their frames. “Hey, there’s one of me and you,” Stiles comments gleefully, pointing at it.

Lydia pauses and turns from where she’s crossing the room. “That one’s from the fourth grade school trip to the petting zoo. I think it was taken right after you dropped your sunglasses into the goat pen and decided to climb in after them,” Lydia says, smiling and shaking her head as she folds a few towels onto the chair beside her bed.

Stiles turns back to the photo with a snort; baby-Lydia is giving baby-Stiles a judgemental sidelong glare and Stiles is oblivious, beaming into the camera, glasses clutched in her hand triumphantly. “I remember that day. Scott was getting me ice-cream when this was taken and I’m pretty sure I made my dad take another one right after with her in it.”

“That sounds like you,” Lydia agrees. “You had McCall separation-anxiety even then.” She turns around to face Stiles seriously then, hands on her hips. “So; down to business. You want to make Scott realise you like her, correct?”

“Correct,” Stiles agrees. She carries on admiring the photos on Lydia’s dresser for a few seconds until the girl behind her clears her throat pointedly. “What? You asked a question, I answered; typically this is when you would say something else. That’s generally how a conversation works.” Stiles rolls her eyes when she turns, but the smile is wiped off her face when she sees what Lydia is holding in her hand. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. You’ve seen Clueless, haven’t you? Every good declaration of love needs a makeover scene, you know that.” She shakes the box in her hand and looks at Stiles as though she’s being deliberately thick.

“Not this declaration of love,” Stiles counters quickly. “I don’t know, Lydia.” She chews on her lip and tangles her fingers together in front of her, twisting them anxiously. “I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Scotty already thinks I’m cool the way I am so I don’t need to seem too different.”

Lydia steps forward and looks at Stiles with wide, earnest eyes. “Scott thinks you’re a cool _friend_. You’re trying to shake that. Sure, you can tell her that you love her dressed like that if you want; or you can let me make you over and put this new start you’re looking for into action straight away.” Lydia shrugs and puts the box down. “It’s up to you.” She nonchalantly skim reads the back of the box, looking thoughtful. “I also really like playing dress-up,” she adds after a moment.

Stiles stares past Lydia into the full-length mirror behind her. Stiles thinks she looks fine – black stretched-out skinny jeans, baggy white t-shirt, un-buttoned plaid shirt hanging loosely from her shoulders. She looks just like she always does. But maybe Lydia’s right and what Scott needs is a hint, a nudge in the right direction. She bites her lip for a few seconds before speaking. “No dresses,” she concedes and Lydia beams at her. “Nothing too extreme, okay? I don’t want to scare Scott off.”

“Promise.” Lydia holds out her pinky finger and they shake, just like they used to do in the middle school. “We’ll go with your main style, but make it more you. Trust me; this is a good idea.”

Famous last words, Stiles thinks.

An hour later finds Stiles sitting at Lydia’s dresser with a towel over her shoulders. She’s pretty much five seconds from screaming.

“Lydia,” Stiles starts, glaring daggers at the girl in the mirror as she watches her plug in a hairdryer. “What part of ‘nothing too extreme’ don’t you understand? My hair is _blue_ , Lydia. Blue!”

“Oh, spare me. There’s an inch of turquoise at the tips, it’s hardly extreme. It’ll probably snap off in a few days anyway with the state of your split-ends.” Lydia inspects the blue tint to Stiles’ hair proudly and waits until Stiles’ opens her mouth to speak before switching the hair-dryer on to drown her out with the noise.

As it dries, Stiles has to concede that maybe it isn’t too bad, even if she does look exactly like one of those annoying Instagram hipsters from the back now.

“That’s the look I’m going for,” Lydia tells Stiles when she voices her concerns. Stiles’ hair is dry now, falling over her shoulders like it normally does, only marginally less crazy and considerably more blue. “You’ve mostly got the grungy hipster style just right, but all you need to do now is commit to it. You’re unintentionally trendy, bless you, but you do need a helping hand. That’s okay; that’s why I’m here, sweetheart.”

Stiles pulls a face at herself in the mirror but smiles at Lydia when their eyes meet. “It’s sort of cool, I guess,” she says, not wanting to admit Lydia was right yet again. “Scott always says it would look good,” she adds quietly.

Lydia waves a hand over at Stiles from where she’s digging around in her wardrobe. “There you go, then. Perfect.” She returns to Stiles holding two tops and thrusts them into Stiles arms, along with her backpack. “Pick one of these and change into your jeans,” she instructs, before disappearing out of the bedroom and downstairs.

In the end Stiles doesn’t wear either of the blouses Lydia gives her, because she really feeling up for a neckline any lower than a t-shirt. Lydia frowns but lets her keep on The 1975 vest she has under her plaid shirt after a few minutes of arguing.

“Shall I do your hair in exchange for you doing mine?” Stiles offers, waving a curling iron like it’s some sort of weapon. She laughs for ten minutes at the horrified look on Lydia’s face and the immense relief when Stiles tells her she’s kidding.

They order a pizza for dinner, but Lydia lets Stiles eat most of it since she’s too busy texting Jackson. “So are you guys, like, a thing?” Stiles asks around a mouthful of pizza. Lydia looks at her in disgust and doesn’t even dignify the question with an answer, but judging by the dress Lydia picks out to wear, Stiles is going to hazard a guess that her assumption was right.

“There are a few cars out there,” Stiles tells Lydia as she peers out of the living room window. “Didn’t you say it started at seven? We should probably head over there.”

“No, sweetheart. No. Haven’t you ever heard of being fashionably late?” Lydia calls from the kitchen. “We’ll leave in an hour or so, which means we have plenty of time to stop _you_ from freaking out before we even get there.” When Lydia returns to the living room, she’s holding two glasses of white wine and a smirk that does absolutely _nothing_ to put Stiles at ease. “My parents will never know.”

Stiles takes the glass and stares at it doubtfully. “Are you sure? I don’t want to, like, puke on Scott or anything.” She takes a cautious sip and it tastes just about as disgusting as any sort of wine Stiles has had before, although it’s probably ten times the price.

“It’s a party. You can’t go in there looking as though you’re about to pass out.” Lydia sighs and leans forward to reach a hand out for Stiles’ glass, smiling in an unsettlingly kind way. “If you don’t want it, you don’t have to drink it. You’re making me feel like one of those disturbing peer-pressure awareness videos.”

Stiles looks down at the wine in her hand again and notices the way her leg is practically _vibrating_ with nerves as she sits on the edge of the sofa. She’d taken her Adderall a few hours ago, so there’s no other explanation for it. “No, you’re right. And one glass isn’t going to make me drunk, right?”

 

 

 

\---

By nine thirty, when Stiles and Lydia cross the road to Danny’s house, there are a lot more cars parked on the sidewalk and bikes laying on the lawn outside. Stiles instantly notices Scott’s leaning against the front of the house and grins like a crazy person. It’s just getting dark, the sky bright blue and clear above them, but the day’s heat is still rising from the ground and Stiles can tell already that it’s going to be a warm night. She’s sort of nervous about seeing Scott, but mostly she’s just excited – although that could be the wine talking. She and Lydia had ended up finishing the bottle between them, but honestly Stiles thinks it must have secretly been squash or something, because she doesn’t feel any different. She just feels _good_.

They have to push through a small group of people to get into the house and Stiles recognises all of them from school even if she hasn’t spoken everyone. The music thumps through to her chest, loud bass reverberating through her body until her fingers tingle where they’re pushed deep into her pockets. Lydia, whose been checking her phone all evening, heads straight to the kitchen when they get through to the hall – she blows Stiles a kiss and presses a red cup into her hand with an encouraging smile before Stiles is left on her own.

“Oh, okay, I see how it is! Just leave me, it’s fine!” Stiles calls after her and maybe she spills a little of whatever’s in the cup in her exuberance, but no one notices. She sniffs the drink cautiously and doesn’t smell anything dodgy, so in the end she just shrugs and takes a sip. It doesn’t taste particularly alcoholic so she’s fairly sure it’s just a regular coke - but by the time she’s drunk half the cup she starts to taste a delicious hint of coconut somewhere. Before Stiles realises it, she’s downed it all and is heading to the kitchen to get herself a second round.

“Stiles!” Calls a sudden voice from her left and Stiles stops half-way across the living room to find Scott, in all her glory, walking to meet her. She’s wearing her letterman jacket and a huge grin and Stiles is pretty sure she’s never seen anything more beautiful in her whole life. “You’re here,” Scott says, all pink cheeks and squinty smile-eyes.

Stiles puts her hand onto Scott’s shoulder and leans towards her, mirroring Scott’s smile. “I sure did,” she says. She slings her arm around Scott’s shoulder and pushes her face into Scott’s neck to give her a one-armed hug. “I wanted to come and talk to you,” she adds when she pulls away. Scott’s still blushing adorably and Stiles lets herself wonder for a moment whether she put it there.

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Scott laughs, and that’s when Stiles notices that, hey, Scott’s got her arm wound around Stiles’ waist. She could get _definitely_ get used to that feeling. The empty red cup dangles from Stiles hand loosely, forgotten at her side as she beams goofily at Scott’s perfect, beautiful face. “Hey, are you okay?” She asks.

“Great! I’m great, Scotty. Look, Lydia did my hair!” Stiles exclaims as she leans in closer to Scott. She breathes in deeply, not caring if it looks weird, because the girl _smells so good_ ; sort of like boy-deodorant and Haribo and Stiles is fairly certain it’s the smell of pure happiness. She waves her blue-green strands of hair in Scott’s general direction so she can see. “Do you like it? I’m one of the We Heart It girls!” Stiles fist-pumps the air vigorously and feels drops of liquid spatter her bare ankles from her cup.

“Whoops,” Stiles hears Scott say through a laugh. “Yeah, I love it. You look really cool,” she adds after a moment and there’s that adorable blush again, pink tinges high on Scotty’s cheeks. Stiles looks down to find that Scotty’s fingers combing gently through the coloured tips of her hair. She stares at them with a dopey smile in surprise, but by the time her brain’s processed what she’s seeing, the touch is gone.

“Lydia did it all,” Stiles says with a self-conscious grin. She adjusts the knotted plaid shirt around her hips and shrugs down at her cat Vans. “It kind of feels like my eyes are being weighed down by the amount of eyeliner I have on right now.”

“Are you sure it isn’t something else that’s making your eyelids droop?” Scott asks innocently and the confusion must show on Stiles’ face because Scott doubles over in laughter.

Stiles just frowns and stares at Scott dumbly. “Huh?” The crowd is a blur around them and Scott’s teeth sparkle white in the glowing yellow lights – had those lights always been that bright? Stiles doesn’t know, can’t even remember what they were talking about two seconds ago, but she laughs along with Scott and when she leans into the arm around her waist, she’s pretty sure she feels happier than she can ever remember.

When she says so out loud, Scotty stops laughing suddenly and ducks her head to stare down at Stiles. “I’m happy too, Stiles. I was really messed up when we weren’t talking,” she admits to Stiles slowly. Her puppy-eyes are brown and wide in her earnest. Stiles can sort of see her face in them, like two little mirrors, and her tiny reflections look star-struck. “What was all that about? I mean, I know I was busy with the practices and stuff but I really tried to talk to you.”

Stiles pouts because the sadness in Scott’s voice feels like a punch to the gut. She has a horrible feeling she’s going to start crying, so she swallows hard a few times. “I’m really sorry,” Stiles says quietly. Her neck suddenly feels too hot underneath her stupid hair and the strobe lights are too bright in her face. “I was an idiot and I couldn’t – Well, I’m still an idiot – but I just didn’t know how to tell you something. Something important.”

Scott’s bottom lip is caught between her teeth and Stiles can’t pull her gaze away from it. She wants more than _anything_ to bridge the distance and press their mouths together, see if Scott’s lips taste the way she’d been imagining. The two of them just sort of stare at each other for a few seconds, Scott looking worried and Stiles’ toes curling up in her Vans with nervousness. Okay, Stiles thinks, this is it – it’s going to happen, Stiles is just going to –

“Shit!” Stiles shouts as she practically jumps away from where beer is suddenly _dripping_ down the side of her leg. “What the hell, man?” She exclaims, looking up furiously at the culprit to find _Greenberg_ , of course. “Is your life one long piece of terribly-composed performance art?” She accuses, and Greenberg at least has the decency to look apologetic as he grips his now-empty cup. In all the drama Scott’s dropped her hand from around Stiles’ waist and she could _murder_ the boy for it.

“Sorry, Stiles,” he says loudly and obnoxiously and tosses her a paper napkin from the table behind him before disappearing into the like crowd of people like a fucking cockroach, or something.

“Fucking cockroach!” Stiles shouts after him. She must pull away from Scott too fast or trip over her feet or do something equally dumb, because Stiles can’t help but stumble a little. The walls spin weirdly around her, hands flailing uselessly for something to grab onto and just when Stiles feels as though she might be about to get a little too intimate with the carpet, a pair of strong arms wind around her waist to pull her upright.

“Maybe we should take you outside before you wreck Danny’s house,” Scott says softly from somewhere close to Stiles’ ear. She’s pretty sure she feels Scott’s lips brush against her cheek and it sends tingles up and down her spine, so she lets herself be dragged in a daze by Scott through the people to the front door.

“That wasn’t even me, Scott, it was _Greenberg_. That asshole ruined our moment!” Stiles scowls and glares back into the house as though considering going back inside to give him a piece of her mind before thinking better of it. “He owes us a moment,” she adds sulkily, but Scott is giggling, actually _giggling_ beside her and all Stiles can do is stare, mouth gaping and dumbfounded.

Scott rolls her eyes at Stiles, but her cheeks are pink in a way that definitely can’t just be from the warm summer air around them. “We can have more moments,” Scott promises Stiles; “don’t worry about that.” Her hand slides down from around Stiles’ waist and just as Stiles thinks Scott’s pulling away from her, their fingers brush together and then, okay, yep, they’re holding hands.

Stiles smiles down at their intertwined fingers and then up at Scott’s face over and over until she thinks her face might break from the effort of it. “This is a pretty good moment,” Stiles tells her with a mock-bored shrug. Her heart is doing fucking summersaults in her chest and if Scott wasn’t holding her down, Stiles is pretty sure she would just float up into the sky with happiness.

She bumps their shoulders together and leads the way around the side of Danny’s house, where there are less people. Her knees are sort of shaky, but maybe she exaggerates a little bit, just to feel the way Scott’s hand tightens around her fingers every time she stumbles.

“I think you’re sort of drunk, Stiles,” Scotty tells her teasingly. Sometimes Scott does this thing; it’s as though she’s trying so hard not to smile that the grin just oozes out into her voice and makes her sound all sparkly and happy.

Stiles sends Scott a wide, dopey smile as she watches Scott’s mouth and listens to the pretty words coming out, but after a moment she realises she has no idea what Scott just said to her. “I think I’m sort of drunk,” Stiles announces and Scott doubles over laughing.

“Hey, don’t laugh at me! This is serious… serious shit. I’m gonna tell you a thing, okay?” Stiles grabs blindly for Scott’s other hand in the dim light. They’ve reached the side of the house and the light of the streetlamps is blocked out almost entirely – only faint flashes of the strobes peek through the curtains covering the window beside them. The sporadic illuminations take Stiles by surprise every time; whenever the blackness in front of her lights up to reveal Scotty still standing there she wants to burst into happy-tears.

Scott lets Stiles squeeze her hands too tight and stares at Stiles. Her eyes are wide and glowing, earnestly waiting for Stiles to speak. “I promise I won’t run away this time,” she says when the faint sound of bass and drums stretches on for a while.

When Stiles opens her mouth to talk, she fully expects the words to tumble out as they had done with her dad, but this time they catch in her throat. She tips her head back to take in a deep breath and spends a minute distracted by the sky, as though searching for some sort of sign in the stars to help her out, but there aren’t any stars to see tonight – just a bright moon half-peeking around some clouds.

Get it together, Stilinski.

“I’ve been in love with you for a pretty long time, Scotty,” Stiles tells the girl in front of her in a hushed voice. It comes out like a childhood secret shared on the playground – timid and breathless. It’s only when her heart stops thumping so hard in her chest that she can even look at Scott again. “It’s like… I’ve always _loved_ you and then all of a sudden I was _in love_ with you. For a while I didn’t want everything to change, because I was scared of what would happen. What you would say or what people would think. But then I realised.” Stiles lets out a slightly manic laugh as she shrugs and tightens her grip on Scott’s hands before speaking again; “I do want things to change. I’m pretty sure I’ll explode if nothing changes.”

Strobe lights flicker over Scott’s face. Stiles can only catch glimpses every few seconds, as though Scott is a flip-book playing out in front of her. She still hasn’t said anything. “Scotty?” Stiles prompts. Her confidence wavers and a slight edge of desperation frays the edges of her voice.

Ten seconds ago Stiles had been so sure, so positive that she’d got it completely right for once in her life, but his isn’t how it’s supposed to go. She searches the dark blindly for a something, anything from Scott. The few seconds seem to drag on for a lifetime and just when Stiles feels like she’s about to practically throw up from nervousness, the dark shape in front of her moves. Stiles has no idea what to expect until something crashes against her face and Scotty’s amazing lips collide with her own like a fucking whirlwind.

“You’re such an _idiot_ , Stiles,” Scott whispers in the dark, her mouth mere inches from Stiles’. Up close Stiles can make out Scott’s face and her smile reaches right up to her eyes and their warmth spills out into the air between them. Stiles just has a moment to mirror the expression gleefully and then they’re kissing again – Stiles isn’t sure who leans in first but it feels like an atomic bomb explodes in her chest. She wonders whether this is what having a heart attack would feel like, because it’s almost like the world has stopped spinning around her. She doesn’t even care if she’s being melodramatic – all Stiles can think about is how long she’s waited for this and the relief from knowing everything has turned out okay.

Scott drops Stiles’ hands and pushes her fingers up into the mess of Stiles’ hair, thumbs brushing Stiles’ jawline and short nails scraping at the nape of her neck. It feels _amazing_ \- it’s even more amazing to think that it’s _finally_ Scott pressed up against her.

Stiles pushes her hands inside the letterman jacket hanging open from Scott’s shoulders to pull the girl closer to her body, as though trying to make sure the whole situation isn’t some very elaborate daydream. She only pulls away when her head starts feeling weightless and her fingertips tingle. “Wow,” she manages eloquently between gasps and Scott laughs breathlessly from where her face is resting against Stiles’ shoulder.

“Remind me why we waited so long to do this?” Stiles shakes her head disbelievingly. Her hands find a strip of bare skin on Scott’s back, between the top of her jeans and hem of her shirt, and she trails her fingers delicately over the area just to feel Scott shiver against her.

Scott tilts her head to grin up at Stiles and shrug before pulling back to smooth down Stiles’ hair. “I guess we’re both just really stupid,” is her reply and Stiles has to snort out a laugh, because truer words have probably never been spoken.

“Did you colour your hair to impress me?” Scott teasingly mumbles as her fingers stroke through strand after strand, like she’s trying to commit the touch to memory.

“No, I did it to impress Greenberg,” Stiles says matter-of-factly, before rolling her eyes. “I mean, duh. I don’t glam myself up for just any girl, you know,” she adds, only blushing a little bit.

Scott smiles and makes an adorable little ‘aw’ sound before tucking the hair behind Stiles’ ears and taking her by the hand again. “We should go back inside before people start to wonder where we are,” Scott says. She presses a soft, quick kiss to Stiles’ lips that turns into some full-on tongue action before they manage to actually pull apart and walk back inside. Scott takes Stiles’ hand and tucks it into the pocket of her letterman jacket as they walk, leaving Stiles with the best kind of ache to her cheeks.

Stiles thinks it’s sort of sad that no one even notices anything is different when they walk back into the party. It’s not like she expects a flash-mob (although she sort of does); she just wishes all the clueless people around her could realise the amazingness that just occurred between her and Scott. She just wants to shout it from the rooftops and publically announce that ‘ _yes, finally, after years of pining, it actually happened!’_ … Only she isn’t too sure on how well Scotty would take that. Instead, she leads Scott over to the drinks table by the hand and beams proudly at everyone who so much as glances their way.

“Dude,” Scott says under her breath, smiling as Stiles scans the table for something other than half-empty coke bottles and abandoned red cups. “You’re gripping my hand really tight,” she tells Stiles, and oops, Stiles totally is. She looks down at her hand around Scott’s and sheepishly lets it go, but only because trying to unscrew a bottle with one hand is practically impossible.

“Sorry!” Stiles says unapologetically  as she pours them both random drinks of whatever dregs she can find in the few bottles left.  “I’m making up for lost time,” she justifies with a smirk and a quick kiss on Scott’s cheek, desperate to feel the contact again, even though it’s only been a few minutes. Scott laughs delightedly and doesn’t even look around to check whether anyone saw, and Stiles feels like she might cry from the _perfection_ of it all.

The lights are still flashing just as bright, but it’s as though Stiles’ brain is taking a little while to process what she’s seeing, so it all seems to turn into one big blur. People walk past her but she can’t work out their faces soon enough to figure out who they are, so she just says hi to anyone and everyone. She’s just so _excited_ and _happy_ – Scott’s holding her hand back just as tightly as Stiles holds hers, and that’s pretty much all she’s ever wanted in life. Scott laughs every single time from where she’s being dragged along by the hand by Stiles, which only encourages her.

“Danny!” Stiles says, and goes to take a drink only to find her cup is empty again. She drops it into someone else’s as they pass and ignores their sounds of protest in favour of slinging her arms around Scott’s neck happily. Danny’s leaning against the side of the sofa in his living room chatting to a boy Stiles doesn’t recognise, but she interrupts their conversation anyway. “Danny, this is the best party ever! Wait, sorry – ‘gathering’, I mean,“ Stiles corrects with a theatrical wink and air-quotes. “Seriously, it’s amazing.” She looks pointedly at Scott and wiggles her eyebrows theatrically; Danny just looks confused while Scott blushes furious crimson.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Stiles,” Danny replies with raised eyebrows. Stiles swears she sees him share a secret look with Scott and frowns in for a moment, before she’s distracted by a tell-tale flash of red in her peripheral vision.

“Lydia!” Stiles shouts after the girl. For a second she loses grip of Scott’s hand in her haste and she freezes in the middle of the living room, scanning the blurs of faces with rising tension in her chest until Scott appears at her side with a cup of water clutched in her hand.

“Drink this, then we’ll go after Lydia. Okay?” Scott forces the cup into Stiles hands and smiles encouragingly until Stiles has drunk it all. The room seems to spin when Stiles stands still for too long – she isn’t sure she likes it.

Stiles passes the cup back with a scowl when she’s finished, water dripping onto her shirt. “That’s lame. I’m not even drunk, Scotty. She points a shaky, accusing finger at Scott and fights to keep her face straight. “I’m not drunk – you’re drunk.”

Scott just shakes her head and sighs, but the edges of her mouth are quirking up so Stiles takes it as a win. She bites down on her lip to keep from grinning as she reaches over to tenderly brush her fingers over the dimples that form in Scotty’s cheek. Scotty is just so _pretty_. Her eyes flutter closed for a second at the contact, and Stiles is distracted by her amazing eyelashes for a moment before she grins widely and pulls her hand away.

“Quick, Scott! We have to find Lydia!” Stiles insists loudly – probably too loudly, judging by the way Scott winces away from the noise. She grabs Scott by the wrist and stuffs their hands into the pocket of Scott’s varsity jacket as they walk – that way she can stroke over the back of Scott’s hand all she wants without fear of losing her grip again. And Stiles does know it’s impractical to hold hands with Scott for the rest of her life – but she really, really just wants to hold hands with Scott for the rest of her life.

“Me too, Stiles,” Scott says into her ear, and Stiles is confused for a moment before realising that, hey, she must’ve said that cute thing about hand-holding out loud.

They find Lydia talking to Jackson so Stiles shouts her name obnoxiously until she turns around. Scott tries to shush her, which for some reason makes Stiles laugh hysterically. “Look!” Stiles exclaims to Lydia when she’s got her breath back. She gestures wildly to her hand tucked into Scott’s pocket and beams at Lydia, who just raises an eyebrow. “It worked!” She adds helpfully.

“Stiles, honey,” Lydia says, breaking her frowny-silence. She waves a dismissive hand at Jackson over her shoulder as she steps closer to the two of them to stare at Stiles with an unreadable expression. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to have anything else to drink after that first one? Hm?”

Stiles chuckles nervously, looking from Scott to Lydia. “I didn’t,” she says slowly, trying to cast her mind back, but all she can remember is Scott’s lips pressed against hers. “Okay, maybe I did, but only one or two. I’m drunk off happiness, you guys! This is the best night _ever_!”

“Okay, try not to knock out the nice people dancing, Stiles,” Scott says as she catches Stiles’ flailing arms by the wrists. Scott leans over to mumble something to Lydia, who nods while all Stiles can do is pout sulkily.

“You guys,” she says in a whiny voice. “Stop excluding me.” Stiles tugs at Scott’s sleeve a little as she talks. “Scott,” she moans, before pushing her face into the girl’s neck and closing her eyes. “This is the best night ever, Scott,” she repeats insistently, and okay, maybe she can hear the slur to her voice now but no way does she believe she’s actually drunk. She’s just happy and wants to press her face into Scott’s neck and maybe lick it a little. That’s normal, right?

Suddenly there are hands pulling Stiles away from where she’s clinging to Scott, peeling back her octopus-arms and easing her face out from where Stiles has hidden it under a sheaf of Scott’s hair. “Come on, sweetheart,” says Lydia in a tired-sounding voice from somewhere by her left ear. She pries Stiles’ hands from Scott’s and pulls her into a somewhat-vertical position before straightening out her hair and clothes. “Let’s take you back to my house before you break anything.”

Stiles pouts sulkily up at Lydia before turning her attention to Scott, who leans over to brush a piece of hair away behind Stiles’ ear. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” She says under her breath. “A hang-over is no excuse for avoiding me.”

Stiles opens her mouth to reply, but for once in her life she can’t actually think of anything to say. Instead of even attempting to come up with something, she leans forward and presses her lips gently to Scott’s. It sends a tingle all through her body until she’s actually _shaking_ from it, and for a second Stiles doesn’t even care that she’s in the living room of a shitty house party, drunk, probably slobbering all over the girl of her dreams – it’s the best moment of her life.

Lydia lets them have their moment before she drags Stiles away; she’s mumbling some threat to Stiles about having to pay for anything she throws up over, but Stiles is too distracted by replaying the night in her mind to pay any attention. She smiles dreamily as Lydia leads the way back across the street to her house, feeling too floaty and happy to even comprehend what’s going on around her.

Lydia must take her to the guest bedroom, because the next thing Stiles realises, her head’s against soft pillows and she’s just staring up at a ceiling. Scott’s face is the last thing she remembers thinking about; she’s pretty sure there’s still a smile on her face when she drifts off to sleep.

 

 

 

 ---

When Stiles wakes up the next morning, she isn’t even sure she’s awake at all. For a second she honestly thinks she’s actually died in her sleep, because nothing else can explain the horrific pain reverberating around inside her skull. The sky is only just turning blue beyond the undrawn curtains, and more than anything Stiles wishes she’d just stayed asleep for the rest of her life. Her mouth tastes as though something _dead_ is rotting away and she’s pretty sure her brain is trying to explode out of her forehead. After laying there for a few more minutes, it becomes clear to Stiles that sadly she isn’t falling back to sleep any time soon, so she begins the long, painful process of getting out of bed.

After pulling herself up into something vaguely resembling a sitting position, Stiles spots a glass and a few pills on the bedside table and downs them both (even though technically they could be ecstasy or _anything_ … with the state she’s in, she’s willing to take that risk). Her phone is lying on the duvet beside her but the battery must have died in the night, so she checks the time on the alarm clock to find that it’s _only six am_. She hasn’t been up this early since she was a kid. Six am should be made illegal, she decides, as she spends at least ten minutes thinking about food and the odds of it making her puke before deciding that yeah; nope. Her stomach churns uncomfortably so Stiles settles back down on the bed to lay as still as possible until the painkillers start to kick in.

She’s just pulling the duvet back over her legs when it hits her – everything from the night before suddenly floods into her brain like a fucking shovel to the face. “Oh my god,” she says – literally says _out loud_ to herself. The memories are more like a plotline of _Glee_ than her actual real-life life.

Stiles is pretty sure she remembers everything, right from that first glass of wine in Lydia’s living room, to her and Scott pressed against the wall of Danny’s house – to the last drink she’d made, with practically _every_ spirit she could find. God, why had she thought that had been a good idea? She feels sick just thinking about it, and even worse when she thinks about what a fool of herself she’d made around Scott afterwards… especially when everything had been so perfect only a few minutes before.

Stiles smiles dopily when she catches herself thinks about kissing Scott, and their hands held tight in the pocket of Scott’s jacket. She still can’t actually believe how long she’d spent pining over Scott when all she’d had to do was fucking _kiss_ her. Everything had played out so perfectly, Stiles almost thinks that some of it must have actually been a dream. It’s certainly foggy enough – hazy around the edges from the alcohol and pure ecstasy of it all. Even though Stiles feels like complete and utter shit, she just can’t seem to stop smiling.

Stiles doesn’t realise that she falls asleep again but she must do, because the next thing she knows she’s being shaken awake by Lydia. “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” Lydia says in a mockingly optimistic voice. The sun is fully up now and it’s blaring into Stiles’ face as though it’s got a personal vendetta against her.

“No,” Stiles moans weakly as she attempts to hide her face from the assaulting brightness. “Just leave me here to die,” she adds in a pathetic voice while Lydia laughs unsympathetically from the doorway.

Stiles nearly throws up when she finally gets dressed and manages to stumble down the stairs to find Lydia making _bacon_ , of all things. The smell fills the whole house and Stiles has to sit with her eyes closed for a second before she manages to get her shit together and go find her bike in Lydia’s garden.

“Thanks for having me, Lydia,” Stiles calls delicately from outside the front door. “I can’t come any nearer or I’ll vom all over your lovely interior decorating, but you’re the best,” she says, waving and giving an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Couldn’t have done it without you! I’ll credit you in my wedding vows!”

Lydia wipes her hands on a tea towel and leans smirking against the doorway. “Credit me? Sweetheart, I expect to be your Maid of Honour after all I’ve done for you.” She waves Stiles away, still smiling as she turns back into the house. “Thank me properly sometime; preferably when you don’t smell like you spent last night drunk and humiliation.”

“Will do! You can expect a fruit basket!” Stiles calls over her shoulder, before beginning the long, treacherous ride on her bike back home. Luckily the streets aren’t too busy for early on a Saturday morning, which is good, because she swerves all over the place and has to stop like four times to force herself not to throw up.

“Ngh,” is how she greets her dad when she gets in, and he just sighs disapprovingly at her from the living room as she staggers up the stairs to fall back into bed. He’ll ground her later on, she figures, but her dad is apparently pretty cool when it comes to things like that – probably because he knows Stiles probably isn’t going to be repeating her night again anytime soon.

She doesn’t even stop to plug her phone in to charge before Stiles collapses into her bed with a grunt. It’s instant relief to be in her own room, and even though the curtains are still open and she’s still wearing last night’s outfit, she’s asleep after less than a minute.

 

 

 

 ---

The third time Stiles wakes up that morning, it isn’t even morning anymore. It’s _four pm_. It’s worth it though, because Stiles feels practically as good as knew – if a little fragile. She stretches her arms above her head with a contented sigh and gets changed into her PJs since she’s probably not going out again for the day. It’s not until she’s halfway down the stairs that she realises – _holy fuck, it’s four pm._

“Dad, has Scott come by?” Stiles shouts frantically down the stairs. She runs back into her room and plugs her phone in to charge, shaking it impatiently as though that will speed up the process.

Her father appears by her bedroom door looking confused. “She knocked for you at about one,” he tells her, and Stiles stares at him with wide eyes, dumbfounded as she waits for an explanation. “Stiles,” her dad adds, looking confused. “Not a week ago you came to me, practically in tears, saying you didn’t want to talk to Scott.”

“That was a week ago!” Stiles exclaims. Her arms flail desperately and her heart is racing in her chest. “Oh my god, this is terrible,” she says as her phone comes to life _infuriatingly slowly_. “What did you tell her? What did she say?”

Stiles’ dad at least has the decency to look sheepish as he replies. “I told her you were busy. She looked a bit confused but I thought that’s what you wanted me to say.” There’s a pause, and Stiles just buries her face into her hands. “Was that… I take it that wasn’t what you wanted me to say.”

“No, dad. It wasn’t.” Stiles drags her hands over her face, effectively smearing what was left of last night’s eyeliner all over her cheeks. “It’s okay, though. You were just trying to help.” She tries to smile at her dad, because of course it isn’t his fault, but her heart feels like it’s trying to thump out of her chest.

Her dad must sense her internal struggle, because he cautiously steps nearer. “Is now a bad time to tell you that you’re grounded for getting drunk last night?” he asks, and he really does look guilty, which makes Stiles feel guilty too, so she hurries to her feet to pull her dad into a quick hug. She’s pretty sure she isn’t supposed to feel bad for her dad after he grounds her.

“No, it’s fine! Don’t feel bad, seriously! You just did what I asked you to do; it’s my fault.” Stiles pats her dad’s shoulder before pulling back to salute him. “You are relieved of your duties, officer,” she adds with a smile, before biting her lip sheepishly. “But it would be convenient to postpone the grounding until, I don’t know – after Monday? Preferably?”

“Stiles,” he says sternly. “You were drinking underage. That’s a felony. I could have Danny Mahealani arrested for throwing that party.” Stiles frowns for a moment, wondering how he knew it was Danny, before her father’s face softens and he reaches out to ruffle her hair. “I’m sorry, kiddo, but you have to learn,” her dad says in a seemingly-sincere voice.

Stiles just sighs and nods sadly as her dad leaves. “Oh,” he says, reappearing in the doorway after a moment. “And wash that blue out of your hair before school on Monday.”

“Dad! You’re ruining my life!” Stiles shouts dramatically, over-the-top and dragging the vowels out like a teenage protagonist from a Disney show. She sighs theatrically as her dad just laughs at her. She isn’t really mad, because her dad is actually unbelievably fair when it comes to things like that and they get on so well that it’s hard to be angry at him. It’s just weird to see him doing actual dad things when they’re more like close friends.

Stiles is more frustrated by her terrible luck and _timing_ , because it’s probably the worst weekend she could possibly have picked to get grounded on. When she turns her attention back to her phone, she finds she has two missed calls from Scott as well as a voicemail, which she listens to quickly.

“Hey, Stiles,” comes Scott’s voice from the phone – Stiles sort of wants to burst into tears at how confused the girl sounds. “I just dropped by your house and your dad told me you were busy… which, I dunno, thought was sort of weird since we had plans, but maybe something came up… I don’t know.” There’s a pause and rustling, which Stiles fills with angry shouts into the phone even though Scott obviously can’t hear her.

“Jackson’s cracked down on the whole team resting before the game, so he’s making us all turn our phones off… I mean, I’ll keep mine on for a while in case you phone back but I probably won’t be able to see you tomorrow. I’m supposed to set a good example for the rest of the guys and everything. I’ll see you on Monday at the game, anyway!” Scott sounds deceivingly bright, but there’s a slight edge to her voice that makes the hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck stand up. “You’re probably just really hung over,” Scott says, before laughing a little. She clears her throat awkwardly and then speaks again, voice quiet; “If it’s about last night… Stiles, I really wish you would talk to me instead of running away again. So… yeah. Talk to you on Monday. Don’t you dare run away from me.”

The phone buzzes white noise in her ear then, indicating that Scotty had obviously hung up. Stiles stares into space in disbelief. Scotty thought she was _regretting_ last night – _god._ Stiles literally hates every fibre of her being for risking it all for such a stupid reason as _sleeping._ And now Scott’s probably at home, wondering what the fuck is going on... all because of that stupid last drink that Stiles basically feels like puking up all over again.

Stiles tries phoning Scotty’s again even though she knows she’s probably missed her chance – it goes straight to the voicemail and Stiles leaves a gushing apology that goes on after the second beep, so she carries on her rant into another one.

“… Seriously, Scott; I’m so sorry! And I know you won’t be on your phone until after the game now but if you happen to hear this then you have to phone me and stuff. Or we could just talk in real life! Okay, I could go on for hours but I won’t because that would cost us both a fortune – did you know you get charged to listen to voicemails? Anyway. I’ll see you on Monday. Good luck in the game! And, um…” Stiles trails off and scratches at the back of her neck.

She stares at herself in her mirror as she talks and takes a deep breath before opening her mouth again. “Love you, Scotty, you’re the cutest! Bye!” She practically shouts, words merging together so fiercely she thinks it will probably be a miracle if Scott understands her. She hangs up and tosses the phone across the room with a yelp; her heart is suddenly beating so fast in her chest that she thinks it might burst out like something from Alien. She spends the next few seconds with her head between her knees, breathing slowly and deeply to calm herself down.

When she stops feeling like she’s about to drop dead, Stiles sets her phone to the loudest setting and tucks it into her pocket before going downstairs to make herself dinner. She hadn’t noticed how hungry she was, but the second she realises hasn’t eaten in about twenty-four hours she’s _famished._

Her dad kisses her on the forehead as she’s stirring pasta and then heads out for the night shift, so she eats her dinner alone at the table with nothing but her thoughts for company.

Checking her phone every five minutes surprisingly doesn’t make it ring; in fact, it just makes Stiles even more depressed. Eventually she gets sick of it and just goes back to bed, where she miserably watches the entirety of In the Flesh on Netflix, followed by all the Simon Pegg films she can find online. It makes her feel a little better, but her phone stays silent and when she finally falls asleep, it’s still clutched in her hand.

 

 

 

 ---

Sundays are usually filled with homework for Stiles, and since Scott still hasn’t phoned her back, the next day is no different. Stiles mostly just sulks and eats Oreos between naps to make the time pass faster, working through her schoolwork mostly just as something to take her mind off it all. Honestly, she’d expected Scott to reply to her by now, but maybe Jackson really had taken the phone thing seriously. She knew Coach certainly would have meant it about spending the weekend resting, but it seemed a little extreme to ban all contact with the outside world.

Eventually, Stiles phones Lydia. She’s trying to figure out how to get rid of the dip-dyed tips of her hair as it rings, so she leaves her phone on speaker in the bathroom as she combs through the strands in the mirror.

“Hey, Stiles,” Lydia greets when she picks up. “How’s the hangover?”

Stiles snorts before replying. “Better, thanks. How are you?”

“Just great,” Lydia says, but she sounds pissy and Stiles only has to wait for a moment before she’s sighing dramatically and speaking again. “Jackson has this dumb thing where he turns his phone off before a game so he’s been ignoring all of my texts.”

Stiles exhales slowly, the whistle echoing through the bathroom. She sits down on the edge of the bath and shakes her head. “Scott’s been ignoring mine too,” she says, but she can’t stop the smile forming on her face, because at least now she knows Scott hadn’t been lying. Not that she’d thought Scott had been lying, or anything – but everything was clearer now. “What’s that all about anyway?”

Lydia sighs again, sounding frustrated. “I don’t know, Jackson’s so annoying – some major-league team probably does it. So haven’t you spoken to Scott since Friday?”

Stiles leans back against the wall and props her feet up on the edge of the sink. “Nope. But I’m going to try to see her before the game, I think.”

“You might not get a chance. The game is starting early on Monday because the other team is staying in a hotel nearby,” Lydia says. “Apparently we are allowed to skip to watch if our teachers approve, which they obviously will. The sooner all this lacrosse drama is over, the better.”

“Yeah,” Stiles absent-mindedly agrees. A nine am start means that there’s no way Stiles will get to talk to Scott before the game, so that’s killed Stiles’ plan of hunting down the girl in the morning to spill out her heart to her. She tries to pay attention as Lydia starts talking angrily about Jackson, but her mind is wandering. Eventually Lydia must get too frustrated by Stiles’ monosyllabic replies, because she says goodbye angrily and leaves Stiles in silence once again.

Well. Stiles is just going to have to think of another plan. She has an inkling that it’s going to take more than just a conversation to fix it this time – but luckily, she has an idea. She hurries back into her bedroom to turn on her computer and get to work.

 

 

 

 ---

The next day, Stiles gets up an hour earlier than normal to set her plan into action – she actually ends up leaving the house before her father does for the first time in her whole life. She even attempts to recreate the eyeliner Lydia had done for her at the party, but her hand is too shaky so it just goes all over her face. She ends up spending ten precious minutes taking it all off again in favour of her usual swipe of mascara, but even that seems to look weird and lopsided when she’s finished.

And of course, her bad luck couldn’t just stop there. It’s not until she’s just pulling on a red plaid shirt over her David and Goliath t-shirt that she realises that she’d forgotten to do anything about the blue in her hair. She swears and wrestles with it, trying to tuck the coloured ends into a scrunchie, but try as she might Stiles can’t seem to make it do anything but hang accusingly down her back. Eventually she just pulls on a black beanie even though it’s probably about a thousand degrees outside, so she gets to look like ridiculous pre-pubescent boy as well as die from over-heating. Great – just what she’d wanted from her day, obviously.

She’s fairly sure Scott won’t see it, but Stiles still texts Scott good luck as she locks up her bike in the empty shelter. The sky is clear and it isn’t actually _too_ hot, which is ideal weather for a lacrosse game, but Stiles knows Scotty’s probably crazy-nervous. She hopes Scott gets the psychic good-vibes she’s sending, even if she doesn’t see the text.

Stiles had been hoping that maybe the literary magazine hadn’t been printed yet, but when she gets inside the building, she finds the stack of newspapers already sitting in the metal rack inside the main reception. That’s okay – instead of changing the document itself she’ll just have to go with plan B. She’s actually prepared for once, which means so far, so good. The English teachers usually check over her work and have it printed before every first Monday morning of the month – providing she sticks to their guidelines and doesn’t include anything offensive, which is practically impossible in six stapled pages of cheap printer paper.

“Morning, Mrs Fitz! You’re looking lovely today,” Stiles says to the receptionist as she barges though the double doors with her usual gusto. She grins brightly and leans over the counter to smile at the elderly lady behind it. “Is that shirt new? It’s so flattering!”

“Hello, Stiles,” Mrs Fitz greets with her deadpan, croaky voice. She doesn’t even look up from where she’s typing _painstakingly slowly_ on her ancient computer. “To what do I owe the pleasure this morning?” She asks sarcastically with a taunting smile that makes Stiles want to hit her around the head with one of the hundreds of file-o-faxes she has stacked on the shelf behind her. Mrs Fitz has dead, limp hair around her shoulders and dead eyes to match, which are currently staring at Stiles as though she’s trying to telepathically send her elsewhere.

“I have to put some extra pages into the literary magazine. Printing error.” Stiles drums on the counter for a few beats before turning away to stand by the stack of magazines. They’re ready to be taken to each teacher and picked up by interested students, so she doesn’t have that long to get her job done. Hopefully lots of people will pick up the magazine since it’s mostly about the game (and since Stiles had taken the initiative to print the ‘Rules of Lacrosse for Dummies!’ on the back page) so hopefully it will work out, but Stiles still feels as though something’s going to go wrong somehow.

Mrs Fitz just sighs moodily from her desk and glares over her glasses at Stiles as she flicks through the magazine on the top of the pile. She doesn’t even grace Stiles with a response.

“Damn printing errors. You know, I just don’t trust this new-fangled technology, Mrs Fitz. I really don’t.” Stiles sniffs and shakes her head seriously. “Hey, Mrs Fitz? Do you have a stapler I could possibly use? I bet your stapler is the best stapler in the whole school. You look like a woman who appreciates the value of a fine stapler, Mrs Fitz.” And okay, maybe Stiles is enjoying herself a little too much, but who can blame her? She needs a little something to entertain herself.

Mrs Fitz purses her lips but Stiles can tell she’s trying not to be flattered. She reaches out to touch something on her desk that’s hidden from Stiles’ view, and Stiles is willing to bet it’s her dumb stapler. “Since you asked so nicely I might consider it,” she says in her nasally drone, before holding it out delicately in front of her as though it’s made of diamond encrusted gold and not cheap plastic. “But I will be sending your father a bill for the staples you use. Those things aren’t cheap, you know.”

Stiles hurries over to take the stapler from her with a huge, gushing smile. “Oh Mrs Fitz, do _not_ get me started on the price of stationery these days.  Just last week I was looking for some new nibs for my calligraphy pen and –“

“Stilinski, I like a bit of peace and quiet while I’m working, if you don’t mind,” Mrs Fitz says suddenly, interrupting Stiles’ flow. Stiles has to turn around to hide her smirk and covers her mouth with her hand to stop herself from snorting out loud.

“No, no, I understand. I’ll be quiet, don’t you worry,” Stiles assures her around a smile then settles down cross-legged on the floor to pull out her folder. She’d tried to keep the sheets flat in her bag so she could staple each page neatly to the back of each copy of the magazine.

She’d spent a lot of time working on her masterpiece, but the truth was that Stiles just wasn’t good at art or anything remotely similar to it. After hours of perfecting, she’d resorted to WordArt typography and a whole bunch of photos stolen from both hers and Scott’s Facebook pages. She’d used practically all of her dad’s ink to it print out, but she’s sort of proud of herself when she looks at the result.

Stiles had made a haphazardly-composed collage of pictures of the two of them together, filling the page right up to the corners, and over the top was a huge heart that read ‘Stiles Hearts Scott.’ Underneath, in comic sans (because why the fuck not? That’s why) Stiles had written ‘Sorry I was such an idiot xo.’ She thought it was simple, yet effective, and her dad was always telling her that less is more… although how putting an extra page in their school newspaper was ‘less’, Stiles hadn’t yet worked out. All she knew was that it would probably make Scott laugh and that’s all she can really think about.

Stiles is halted in her efficient fold-flip-stack-staple-pile routine with a loud, “Ahem,” coming from across the room. She sighs and tries to work faster, because the only thing worse than a normal Mrs Fitz is an angry Mrs Fitz. Not only that, but Stiles can hear people moving around outside in the hallway, which means people are starting to arrive for the game.

“I’m nearly finished, Mrs Fitz,” Stiles says between gritted teeth as she wrestles with the dumb stapler some more. She’s only got a few more minutes before she knows the freshman hall monitor will be collecting the pile to hand out in the hallways, but it’s a tricky balance between paper-cuts and speed . “You really should get that cough looked at, you know.”

Just as she knows Mrs Fitz is about to rip into her about her ‘insolence’, she finishes with a triumphant whoop. “Thanks for the loan of your stapler!” She calls over her shoulder before she’s practically running out of the room. “Go Wildcats!” She adds as she jogs down the hall and out of the back door that will take her to the lacrosse field. A whole bunch of people cheer at her exclamation, and for a second Stiles thinks, hey, maybe she could have actually enjoyed the whole ‘team spirit’ thing.

The bleachers are already pretty full, but the two teams are nowhere to be seen yet. Stiles checks her phone – half for the time, and half to see whether Scott’s texted her, but she hasn’t. There are still about ten minutes until the game kicks off, so Stiles scans the people to find Lydia a few rows from the back, staring at her nails and looking utterly bored.

“Hey,” Stiles says breathlessly as she squeezes between the people to sit next to Lydia.

Lydia’s eyebrows are practically at her hairline when she looks up at Stiles. “What’s with the hat?” Is the first thing she asks, of course.

“You tell me; you’re the hair expert, apparently,” Stiles shoots back with an fond eye-roll, and Lydia just nods before she rattles off some good hair-dye brands – Stiles is too busy scanning the crowd for maroon uniforms to pay much attention.

Lydia’s phone vibrates in her hand and she looks down at it, suddenly falling silent. “Stiles,” she says slowly, before looking up at her questioningly. “What is this?” She hold up her phone and stares at Stiles with wide eyes.

Stiles ducks her head and shields the screen from the sunlight, squinting until she realises what it is. Her face flushes and she becomes suddenly more interested in the hem of her plaid shirt than Lydia. “Oh, that. Well, you know, the English department are always telling me to branch out with my articles in the newspaper, so I thought-“

“So you thought you would document your dramatic love-confession for Scott in the form of a Microsoft Word collage? Stiles, that’s _comic sans_.” Lydia is laughing and shaking her head, but it’s her real amused, happy laugh instead of her obliging god-Stiles-what-were-you-thinking laugh, so Stiles relaxes considerably.

“Scott likes comic sans,” Stiles says defensively. She chews on her lip and looks around, wondering who else had seen the magazine already. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

Lydia puts her arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulls her into a one-sided hug. “She’ll love it, Stiles,” Lydia tells her with certainty. “Although you should know that Greenberg just sent that to me so I’m assuming the entire school has already seen it. Just so you know.”

Stiles just shrugs and half-hugs Lydia back. “I don’t care that everyone’s seen it. That was sort of the plan,” she says through her smile. Her heart starts pounding in her chest when she catches sight of the two lacrosse teams filing out of the locker rooms to their right.

It isn’t hard to spot Scott amongst the players – the other team are wearing green, and Scott is the only girl. She looks tiny in the crowd of towering boys, which helps Stiles to identify her, but she’s also the only player waving enthusiastically at Stiles from the field.

Stiles instantly grins and stands up on the bleachers, dragging Lydia to her feet with her. “Go Scott!” She shouts with her hands cupped around her mouth, and only sits down again when the rest of the crowd start to cheer loudly too. “She looks cute, doesn’t she? God, she looks cute.” Scott’s wearing adorable mid-thigh length maroon shorts and full armour underneath her jersey. She pulls her hair into a messy, low ponytail before waving at Stiles one last time and putting on her helmet.

Lydia chuckles and nudges Stiles with her elbow. “Okay, easy. Don’t get distracted and miss the game.”

Jackson is starting off the game in the middle as the strongest midfielder of the team, and he and the opposing team’s player stand with their sticks parallel. Stiles feels sort of bad for the other team already – their school, Chance Harbor from up the state – only have a few rows of supporters in the bleachers and although the team look like a group mini-Hulks in their green get-ups, their fans look less than confident.

Stiles can’t draw her eyes away from Scott on the attacking side as they all find their places on the grass. The girl looks so at home and _calm_ – Stiles doesn’t think she’s ever been more proud of Scott in her whole life. When the whistle _finally_ blows, Stiles is pretty sure she’s cheering along the loudest out of everyone. Even Lydia’s nonchalance slips for a moment when she stands to clap and scream Jackson’s name.

They’re both excellent teams, and frankly Stiles is glad she’s not on the field because there’s no way in hell she would be able to keep up with the fast-paced passing and checking. Greenberg and a guy from the other team collide harshly within the first five minutes and there’s a tense moment while the crowd waits to make sure they’re both alright, but after that brief interlude it’s all kicking off again just as quickly.

“Jesus, this game is brutal,” Lydia mumbles, practically drowned out by Coach screaming from the side-lines.

“Tell me about it,” Stiles replies as she chews on her lip and scans for Scott in the crowd. The first quarter ends suddenly and the Beacon Hills supporters cheer while the team sit down on the bench to have a break.

Stiles collapses back into her seat and takes off her hat to rub her hands through her hair. “This game is so stressful,” she moans into her palms. She wants Scott to do well and for the school to win, obviously – but above all she just wants Scott to come out uninjured so they can make out some more.

“I’m sure they’ll do fine,” Lydia says seriously with a nod, not taking her eyes from the field. “They’re holding up well against the other team. I’m sure they’ll score first.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and hums agreeably as the next quarter starts. “Well, you’re the psychic,” Stiles concedes, before standing to applaud again.

And, as it turns out, Lydia’s right.

Scott scores within thirty seconds of the next quarter – her crosse arcs gracefully through the air and sends the ball flying into the back of the net faster than a flash of lightning. Stiles jumps to her feet and screams at the top of her lungs, and she swears when Scott turns to the crowd to fist-pump the air, it’s Stiles she’s making eye-contact with through the slits in her helmet.

“Yes! Go Scotty!” Stiles cries as she waves like a maniac. People around her are smiling, looking at her a little too knowingly, but Stiles can’t even find it within herself to be embarrassed for one moment. “Did you see that!? Lydia, did you see that?!”

“Yes, Stiles!” Lydia says, and for once she’s actually mirroring Stiles’ excitement. They clutch hands delightedly as they watch the team bundle on top of Scott in celebration.

The next goal comes from a huge boy on the other team, levelling the score, but it does nothing to stem their enthusiasm; by the next quarter Danny’s taken Beacon Hills to the lead again. Stiles thinks her lungs are going to give out from the screaming she’s been doing and her hands are tingling like crazy as she claps, but every time Scott so much as _looks_ her way Stiles goes _crazy_.

By the time the last quarter rolls around, everyone’s sitting on the edge of their seats. There have been a few more collisions on the field and the players are all noticeably slower, probably covered in bruises beneath their kits. Stiles can’t help worrying whether Scott’s okay, even though she’s by far the most energetic one on the pitch.

There’s only about ten minutes left to go and it’s pretty apparent the other team have accepted their defeat, so it’s not all that surprising when Scott scores again, but Stiles still goes completely mental as she cheers.

The bleachers practically shake under their feet as Stiles jumps up and down along with everyone else. Lydia pulls her into a hug from the side and then someone else’s hand is on her arm, and when Stiles turns she finds Melissa McCall grinning beside her.

“I take it we’re winning?” She shouts over the cheering, still wearing her nurse scrubs as she claps along and shakes her head disbelievingly.

Stiles has just opened her mouth to reply when the whistle blows to signal the end of the game. “3-1 to Beacon Hills!” Stiles screams ecstatically, but there’s no way anyone hears her over the insane amounts of cheering. She’s hugging _everyone_ she can get her hands on – Scott’s mom, Lydia, some random boy in the row below them – but then she’s breaking free to take the stairs two at a time down to the field.

“Scotty!” Stiles shouts when she reaches the side-lines and she swears to god that when Scott turns around it’s in slow motion, her ponytail whipping through the air and her smile visibly growing wider on her face as she spots Stiles.

It’s only when Scott runs out from behind Greenberg that Stiles realises that Scott’s taken off her lacrosse jersey to reveal a plain white wife-beater underneath. It’s something of a tradition amongst the players to take their shirts off when they win a big game, but the last thing she’d expected to see was the sight of Scott in an obviously home-made shirt. The words are written in black sharpie and cover the whole of Scott’s chest, plain as day, but Stiles still can’t believe what she’s seeing.

Scott stops a few feet away from Stiles and points at the words on her chest proudly. ‘I forgive you, Stiles,’ it says in Scotty’s messy capitals, and Stiles thinks she’s going to choke on air because she’s laughing so hard until Scott holds up a silencing finger and raises her eyebrows.

Stiles takes a confused step nearer, but then Scott’s turning around to reveal _more_ words on the back. “You’re my idiot,” Stiles reads out loud between splutters of laughter – the rush of affection for Scott is _astounding_ and she doesn’t even think twice before running across the field to meet the girl in the middle of the field.

Stiles is breathless from the excitement and the short run by the time she reaches Scotty, and the kiss she presses urgently to Scott’s lips doesn’t last long at all before she has to pull away to gasp for air. “You’re ridiculous,” she says to Scott loudly over the crowd that’s still cheering at an ear-shattering volume.

“Me, ridiculous? Stiles – _comic sans_ ,” Scott retorts with wide, happy eyes. She combs through Stiles’ hair with her fingers and smiles at Stiles like she’s hung the fucking moon in the sky – and, yeah, Stiles could get used to that look.

Stiles bites down on her lip and nods over Scotty’s shoulder at the celebrations of the school as she pulls the girl nearer by the waist until they’re pressed flush against one another. “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met,” Stiles tells her seriously. “And well done for throwing some balls into a net, I guess,” she adds in a mock-disinterested voice.

Scott just carries on smiling with that puppy-adoration look on her face. Stiles thinks she isn’t going to say anything at all, until she does. “I love you, Stiles,” Scott admits suddenly. Her cheeks are flushed and shining with sweat, but that’s the last thing on Stiles’ mind as she covers them with her hands to pull their mouths together and kiss Scott again like her fucking life depends on it.

“I love you too, Scott,” Stiles says when they finally break apart, and oh, hey – sometime during all of _that_ , it turned out that the crowd had started cheering for _Scott and Stiles_ instead of the lacrosse team. There’s a whole swarm of grinning faces staring at them when Stiles turns around, and all Stiles can do is laugh disbelievingly.

She turns to stare at Scott meaningfully before screaming, “Wildcats!” at the top of her lungs. She grabs Scott’s wrist and throws it eagerly up above their heads with gusto.

‘Get your head in the game!’ the crowd shouts back and Stiles dissolves into hysterical laughter while Scotty pulls her hand back to swat at Stiles, laughing just as hard.

“You’re so ridiculous!” Scott shouts into her ear, still laughing. Her lips brush Stiles’ cheek as she talks, and – yeah, Stiles thinks as Scott’s fingers wind between her own - she could definitely, _definitely_ get used to this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SO PROUD OF MYSELF FOR ACTUALLY FINISHING THIS! i never thought it would ever get this long and even though i had to rush to finish a little towards the end, i can't believe i actually did a proper real life big bang fic! yay! i really hope you enjoy this <3 the title is from wild heart by bleachers, who i basically listened to exclusively to while i wrote this, so i suggest you go listen to them. thank you again to emery for producing such inspiring, lovely work! i really hope you like this, because it's pretty much all thanks to you :D xoxo


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